readers. Here is a passage which Lock- | far from bad, yet wants spirit. He talks of hart omitted. It was written at Abbots- publishing his recollections in the Peninsula. ford on the 18th of September, 1827: Walked from Huntly Burn, having gone in the carriage. Smoked my cigar with Lock. hart after dinner, and then whiled away the evening over one of Miss Austen's novels. There is a truth of painting in her writings which always delights me. They do not, it is true, get above the middle classes of society, but there she is inimitable. His remarks on "Elizabeth de Bruce " display a laudable absence of jealousy, and, curiously enough, his notice of the book will prevent its very name passing into oblivion: Read "Elizabeth de Bruce; "it is very clever, but does not show much originality. The characters, though very entertaining, are in the manner of other authors, and the finished and filled-up portraits of which the sketches are to be found elsewhere. One is too apt to feel on such occasions the pettish resentment which you might entertain against one who had poached on your manor. But the case is quite different, and a claim set up on having been the first who betook himself to the illustration of some particular class of characters, or department of life, is no more a right of monopoly than that asserted by the old buccaneers by setting up a wooden cross, and killing an Indian or two on some new discovered island. If they can make any thing of their first discovery, the better luck their's; if not, let others come, penetrate further into the country, write descriptions, make drawings or settlements at their pleasure. R. Plumer Ward, a man well known in his day, and who held several offices, among others that of under secretary for foreign affairs, produced some serious and light books which had many readers, and were highly praised. One of his novels is called De Vere," and of it Sir Walter wrote: which must be interesting, for he has, I think, sense and reflection. Richard Thomson, who wrote "Chronicles of London Bridge," was the author of the following one which attracted Sir Walter's notice: chime of bells which I have had some hand in Read "Tales of an Antiquary," one of the setting a-ringing. He is really entitled to the name of an antiquary; but he has too much description in proportion to the action. There is a capital wardrobe of properties, but the performers do not act up to their character. By way of contrast to these acute comments on the little-known works of littleknown men, I shall give his equally sagacious remarks upon the pet work of a man whose name is familiar, and whose works are to be found in all libraries. On the 1st of March, 1827, Sir Walter wrote: By the by, it is the anniversary of Bosworth Field. In former days "Richard the Third" was always acted at London on this day; now the custom, I fancy, is disused. Walpole's "Historic Doubts" threw a mist on this reign. It is very odd to see how his mind dwells upon it at first as the mere sport of his imagination, till at length they become such Delilahs of his imagination that he deems it far worse than infidelity to doubt his Doubts. After all, the popular tradition is so very strong and pointed concerning the character of Richard, that it is, I think, in vain to doubt the general truth of the outline. drama in the tone that was to suit the popu Shakespeare, we may be sure, wrote his lar belief, although where they did Richard wrong, his powerful scene was sure to augment the impression. There was an action and a reaction. Walter upon writers of his own country I may add to the remarks made by Sir those which he made upon a notable American novelist, which he wrote on the 14th of January, 1828: Tried to read "De Vere," a sensible but heavy book, written by an able hand-but a great bore for all that. [Two months later he journeyed from Abbotsford to Edinburgh] I read Cooper's new novel "The Red slept part of the way and read "De Vere "Rover; "the current of it rolls entirely upon the rest. It is well written in point of lan- the ocean. Something there is too much of guage and sentiment, but has too little action in it to be termed a pleasing novel. Everything is brought out by dialogue- or worse: through the medium of the author's reflections, which is the clumsiest of all expedients. The following writer is embalmed in Sir Walter's journal : nautical language; in fact, it overpowers everything else. But, so people once take an interest in a description, they will swallow a great deal which they do not understand. The sweet word " Mesopotamia" has its charms in other compositions as well as in sermons. He has much genius, a powerful conception of character and force of execuBreakfasted with one Mr. Franks, a young tion. The same ideas, I see, recur upon him Irishman from Dublin, who brought letters that haunt other folks so. The graceful form from Walter [his son] and Captain Longmore of the spars, and the tracery of the ropes and of the Royal Staff. He has written a book cordage against the sky, is too often dwelt of poetry, "Tales of Chivalry and Romance," | upon. There were few noteworthy men of his day whom Sir Walter did not meet. Edward Irving was one whom he saw more than once. The impression made upon him by the eccentric divine was unfavorable, and he recorded how on one occasion he went out of his way to escape encountering him. This was after dining at a party where Irving was present, and Sir Walter had entered in his journal: I could hardly keep my eyes off him while we were at the table. He put me in mind of the devil disguised as an angel of light, so ill did that horrible obliquity of vision harmonize with the dark tranquil features of his face, resembling that of our Saviour in Italian pictures, with the hair carefully arranged in the same manner. There was much real or affected simplicity in the manner in which he spoke. He rather made play, and spoke much across the table to the Solicitor, and seemed to be good-humored. But he spoke with that kind of unction which is nearly [allied] to cajolerie. He boasted much of the tens of thousands that attended his ministry at the town of Annan, his native place, till he well-nigh provoked me to say he was a distinguished exception to the rule that a prophet was not esteemed in his own country. But time and place were not fitting. tears. I am now I believe I was cross yesterday. I am at any rate very ill to-day with a rheumatic headache, and a still more vile hypochrondriacal affection which fills my head with pain, my heart with sadness, and my eyes with which visited men less educated and less firm I do not wonder at the awful feelings than I may call myself. It is a most hang. dog sort of feeling, but it may be chased away by study or by exercise. The last I have always found most successful, but the first is most convenient. I wrought, therefore, and endured all this afternoon. in such a state that I would hardly be surprised at the worst news which could be brought to me. And all this without any rational cause why to-day should be sadder than yesterday. My aches at the heart terminated in a cruel aching of the headrheumatic I suppose. But Sir Adam and Clerk came to dinner, and laughed and talked the sense of pain and oppression away. cannot at times work ourselves into a gay humor, any more than we can tickle ourselves into a fit of laughter; foreign agency is necessary. My huntress of lions again dined with us." I have subscribed to her album, and done what was civil. We When Sir Walter visited Paris in the autumn of 1826, he recorded in his journal on the 7th of November, that, on the Sir Walter disliked being treated as a return journey, he passed the night at lion, yet he was sometimes compelled to Airaines, where he had "bad lodgings, undergo the ordeal. He probably submit- wet wood, uncomfortable supper, damp ted with a better grace than the entries of beds, and an extravagant charge. I was his journal imply, as politeness to others never colder in my life than when I walked and consideration for them were distin- with the sheets clinging round me like a guishing traits in his character. However, shroud." This was the origin of much of he indulges in many uncomplimentary ref- the illness which embittered his closing erences to the social hunters of lions, and years. He suffered great pain from rheuhe depicts several, among whom the fol-matic attacks, and what was equally unlowing unnamed lady is one :bearable was the circumstance that his sound leg was affected, and he feared that Miss dined with us, a professed lion-he would be unable to walk again. Even huntress, who travels the country to rouse the peaceful beasts out of their lair, and insists on being hand-and-glove with all the leonine She is very plain, besides frightfully red-haired, and out-Lydia-ing even my poor friend Lydia White. An awful visitation! I think I see her with javelin raised, and buskined foot, a second Diana, roaming the hills of Westmoreland in quest of the lakers. Would to God she were there or anywhere Affectation is a painful thing to witness, and this poor woman has the bad taste to think direct flattery is the way to make her advances to friendship and intimacy. race. but here! when the attack had passed off he was in great discomfort, and he wrote: "The feeling of increasing weakness in my lame leg is a great affliction. I walk now with pain and difficulty at all times, and it sinks my soul to think how soon I may be alto gether a disabled cripple." Attacks of apoplexy endangered his life, and though he survived, yet his speech was affected and his mind impaired. He was conscious of failing health, and wrote in January, 1831, that it was confirmed he had suffered from an apoplectic seizure, that he spoke and read with embarrassment, and that even his handwriting seemed to stammer. He added: "I am not solicitous about this, only if I were worthy I would pray God for a sudden death, and no interregnum between I cease to exercise reason and I cease to exist." Before this the refer- | my secret soul long for cigars, though once ences to his handwriting are many, and he so fond of them. About six hours per day is even contemplated taking lessons for its good working, if I can keep it. improvement. He made the following entry in June, 1828: Had a note from Ballantyne complaining of my manuscript, and requesting me to read it over. I would give £1,000 if I could, but it would take me longer to read than to write. I cannot trace my pieds de mouches but with great labor and trouble; so e'en take your own share of the burden, my old friend, and, since I cannot read, be thankful I can write. In his earlier days Sir Walter wrote a clear, business-like hand. The facsimile of a page of the manuscript of "Ivanhoe was inserted in Lockhart's "Life;" it is painfully interesting to compare it with the facsimile of the concluding words in the journal, being the last which Sir Walter penned. No untrained reader of manuscript can decipher them. Before he consented to leave Scotland and try whether a visit to the sunny south might not lengthen his days, he was reduced to a state of extreme debility. He still persisted in writing, and he was engaged upon "Count Robert of Paris," when he noted, on the 16th of March, 1831, his daily round: Rise at a quarter before seven; at a quarter after nine breakfast, with eggs or in the singular number, at least; before breakfast private letters, etc.; after breakfast Mr. Laidlaw [who acted 'as amanuensis] comes at ten, and we write together till one. I am greatly helped by this excellent man, who takes pains to write a good hand, and supplies the want of my own fingers as far as another person can. We work seriously at the task of the day till one o'clock, when I sometimes walk not often, however, having failed in strength, and suffering great pain even from a very short walk. Oftener I take the pony for an hour or two, and ride about the doors; the exercise is humbling enough, for I require to be lifted on horseback by two servants, and one goes with me to take care I do not fall off and break my bones, a catastrophe very like to happen. My proud promenade à pied or à cheval, as it happens, concludes at three o'clock. An hour intervenes for making up my journal and such light work. At four comes dinner- - a plate of broth or soup, much condemned by the doctors, a bit of plain meat, no liquors stronger than small beer, and so I sit quiet to six o'clock, when Mr. Laidlaw returns, and remains with me till nine, or three quarters past, as it happens. Then I have a bowl of porridge and milk, which I eat with the appetite of a child. I forgot to say that after dinner I am allowed half a glass of whiskey or gin made into weak grog. I never wish for any more, nor do I in Five weeks later he wrote that he had been ailing for several days, having had "a distinct shock of paralysis affecting both my nerves and spine.' The beginning of this attack was witnessed by Mr. w. F. Skene, the son of Scott's old friend, who was then a young man, and who is now historiographer royal for Scotland. Mr. W. F. Skene had gone with his father on a visit to Abbotsford in April, 1831, and the following account of what he witnessed there is printed by Mr. Douglas : I had just attained my twenty-first year, and as such a visit at that early age was a great event in my life, I retain a very distinct recollection of the main features of it. I recollect that Lord Medowbank and his eldest son Alan came at the same time, and the dinnerparty, at which Mr. Sringle of the Haining and his brother were present. The day after our arrival Sir Walter asked me to drive with him. We went in his open carriage to the Yarrow, where we got out, and Sir Walter, leaning on my arm, walked up the side of the river, pouring forth a continuous stream of anecdotes, traditions, and scraps of ballads. I was in the seventh heaven of delight, and thought I had never spent such a day. On Sunday Sir Walter did not come down to breakfast, but sent a message to say that he had caught cold, and had taken some medicine for it the night before, which had made him ill, and would remain in bed. When we sat at either lunch or dinner - I do not recollect which Sir Walter walked into the room, and sat down near the table, but ate nothing. He seemed in a dazed state, and took no notice of any one; but after a few minutes' silence, during which his daughter Anne, who was at table, and was watching him with some anxiety, motioned to us to take no notice, he began in a quiet voice to tell us a story of a pauper lunatic who, fancying he was a rich man, and was entertaining all sorts of high persons at the most splendid banquets, communicated to his doctor in confidence that there was one thing that troubled him much, and which he could not account for, and that was that all these exquisite dishes seemed to him to taste of oatmeal porridge. Sir Walter told this with much humor, and after a few minutes' silence, began again, and told the same story over a second time, and then again a third time. His daughter was watching him with increasing anxiety, then motioned to us to rise from table, and persuaded her father to return to his bedroom. Next day the doctor who had been sent for told us that he was seriously ill, and advised that his guests should leave at once, so that the house might be kept quiet, and his daughter devote herself entirely to the care of her father. We accordingly left at once, and I never saw Sir Walter again. The wind continues unaccommodating all night, and we see nothing, although we prom ised ourselves to have seen Gibraltar, or at Notwithstanding his shattered health, least Tangiers, this morning, though we are he persisted in working at "Count Rob- disappointed of both. Tangiers reminded me ert of Paris," and he was shocked when of an old antiquarian friend, Auriol Hay his printer and publisher told him that the Drummond, who is consul there. Certainly, last volume of it would never do. He if a human voice could have made its hail thought, moreover, that their adverse heard through a league or two of contending opinion would coincide with that of the wind and wave, it must have been Auriol public, and he admitted that it did not Drummond's. I remember him at a dinner differ greatly from his own. He wrote to given by some of his friends when he left please the public, though; when he fin- Edinburgh, where he discharged a noble part, ished" Anne of Geierstein," he expressed life, for dear life,' against the whole boat's self-pulling, like Captain Crowe, 'for dear an opinion of the public which was the crew," speaking, that is, against thirty memreverse of flattering. He then remarks bers of a drunken company, and maintaining that his avowal of the carelessness he had the predominance. I loved him dearly; shown would cause people to say: he had high spirits, a zealous faith, goodThis expresses very little respect for the humor, and enthusiasm, and it grieves me public. In fact, I have very little respect for that I must pass within ten miles of him and leave him unsaluted! for, mercy-a-ged, what that dear publicum whom I am doomed to amuse, like Goody Trash in "Bartholomew a yell of gratitude would there be! I would Fair, with rattles and gingerbread; and I put up with a good rough gale which would should deal very uncandidly with those who force us into Tangiers, and keep us there for may read my confessions were I to say I knew a week; but the wind is only in gentle oppoa public worth caring for, or capable of dis-sition, like a well-drilled spouse. tinguishing the nicer beauties of composition. we shall see this evening, Tangiers becomes They weigh good and evil qualities by the out of the question. pound. Get a good name and you may write trash. Get a bad one and you may write like Homer, without pleasing a single reader. It was hoped that a sea voyage and a sojourn in Italy might alleviate his symptoms, and on the 29th of October, 1831, he embarked at Portsmouth on board the Barham, a frigate which, by the king's commands, had been placed at his disposal. Malta was the first place at which be made a stay; then he proceeded to Naples, and thence by land to Rome. From Rome he went to Venice, thence through the Tyrol into Germany, sailed down the Rhine to Rotterdam, and from Rotterdam to London, where he arrived on the 13th of June, 1832. He was then very ill; as soon as he could be moved, he was conveyed to Abbotsford, where, on the 21st of September, his great spirit passed away. The last words that he ever penned were written in his journal at Rome in the April before his death. Mr. Douglas has given a facsimile of them in the preface to the journal, the final and incomplete sentence running, "We slept reasonably, but on the next morning," Many of the later entries in the journal betray little trace of Sir Walter's mental and physical debility. The following, which was one written at sea, on the 30th of November, 1831, is in the style of his better days, and it will serve as a speci men: Gibraltar He A better knowledge of Sir Walter is gained from his journal than from Lockhart's voluminous "Life." He places himself before the reader without disguise, and he has no reason to hesitate. possessed a finely balanced mind. In the height of prosperity and the depth of adversity he bore himself with philosophic calm. He had neither envy nor jealousy in his disposition, nothing pleasing him better than the successes of others. fund of information was enormous, and he may be said to have known nearly everything except his own merits. He thought it possible that his works might be read by two generations. That he had taken his place among the immortals never entered his mind, and he was honestly amused, as well as utterly sceptical, when told that his fame would endure. His Thackeray considers it a test of a writ er's personal attractiveness that a desire should exist to make his acquaintance and to live in his company. He said that he had no wish ever to meet Swift, while he would delight in the society of Addison and Steele. No one who peruses Sir Walter's journal can help feeling regret that the man cannot be known in the flesh. He appears to have been the cheeriest and most genial of companions, and no one can have associated with him without longing to continue doing so. He was the terrestrial Providence of the district in which Abbotsford is situated. The wealthy courted him and the poor blessed him. | Sunday; the glass had sunk to sixty deHe loved to live among his own people, grees, and had not yet recovered itself; and he looked forward to reposing in the moreover, the bishop's yacht had stolen a Abbey where his ancestors moulded into march on us, and it always carries bad dust. It was as becoming in his case as weather. These were all factors against in that of Shakespeare to be buried near us. Still, at 4 P.M. we started, up the the place where their respective homes harbor, a significant fact; as, in smooth lay. A stanza out of the many beautiful weather, boats generally prefer to cross ones which Fitz-Greene Halleck, the the bar and catch the full breeze of the American poet, wrote upon Burns is ocean. At five o'clock, coffee without equally applicable to the grave of Shake- milk — and excellent bread and butter speare in the church at Stratford and that were served to us. We needed all our of Sir Walter Scott in Dryburgh Ab- wraps as we sat long on deck watching bey: the brilliant stars. The Great Bear in these latitudes stands on its tail like a huge mark of interrogation. Our interest in astronomy was great; in vain the captain suggested the cabin might be warmer. Who that has once slept in the cabin of an island schooner is ever in haste to repeat the experience! Nevertheless, at nine o'clock we withdraw. Over the miseries of night we draw a veil; yet, in justice to the Dart, be it said, her berths are large, clean, and as comfortable as can be expected. Such graves as theirs are pilgrim shrines, W. FRASER RAE. From Chambers' Journal. nurse 66 The sea is a good school for early ris We were on deck betimes; the breakfast of fried ham, coffee, and bread and butter, was excellent for the happy ones who could eat. In a few hours we were off Spanish Wells, a pretty little settlement, where we lay-to, to land the mails, and where, alas, we also ran aground on a sandbank in the white water (that is, shallow sea). Here we were hailed by a New Yorker, who having passed the former winter in Norway, conceived the idea of spending the present one amidst the equally beautiful, if in temperature somewhat different, waters of the Bahamas. He looked — saving only his complexion WHILST London fashionables crowd one gaiety on another through the winter season, dwellers in remote and quiet col-ing. onies have to make amusement for themselves of equally pleasant if less exciting kind; and the winter is also our season in the Bahamas. On pleasure bent, we that is, three ladies, two children and proposed to ourselves a trip to Harbor Island, one of the nearest and prettiest of the "out islands," such being the lofty way in which New Providence talks of its neighbors, although as a rule, larger and more fertile than itself. But then Nassau is our metropolis. The sea was our highway, a schooner our train. We think no more of stepping on board a ship than do our English sisters of getting into the Metropolitan Railway. Monday was mail-day. Once a fortnight in winter, once a month in summer, each of the larger islands sends a mail schooner to convey their letters to the post-office at Nassau, announcing their arrival and marking their distinction by firing a gun. On Tuesday they disperse again for their various bourns, carrying with them the English mail, and usually stores of all sorts for island use. Our letters secured, we boarded the Dart of Harbor Island, a clean, trim little vessel of thirty-five tons; the swiftest, steadiest little ship in the service, manned almost entirely by a white crew of kindly, steady, church-goers. Long may she run! The sea was not altogether amiable. It had worked itself up into a sudden gale on somewhat like one of the aborigines paddling his own canoe, and darting swiftly here and there. Being anxious to proceed, the captain had the anchor put on the ship's boat, and conveyed to a neighboring rock, trying by means of the hawsers to move ourselves off. The change of tide came to our aid, and we were once more afloat. So numerous are the cays or islets scattered about the Bahamas, that in sailing to Harbor Island one scarcely loses sight of land. As we passed from Spanish Wells, the large island of Eleuthera was already on our right. We were soon passing Ridley's Face, a jutting headland, which as you recede from it, gradually takes the form of a man's profile; hence its name. Leaving the white water, we came to a rough piece of deep sea; the wind being |