LOCKHART'S LIFE OF SCOTT.

Tim Sixth Volume, which has just appeared, does not complete the work, as was originally intended and announced : "the publi- cation," says Mr. LOCKHART, "has, from unfortunate circumstances, been extended over a much greater portion of time than he had calculated ; and every succeeding month has brought him some considerable accession of materials." " It is hoped," he adds, "that the seventh and last volume may appear in the course of February next."

The volume before us is full of deep and even tragic interest. We do not remember another piece of biography calculated to make such a profound impression on the reader. It opens with the marriage of Sir WALTER'S eldest son, in the midst of present happiness and splendid anticipations of the future. SCOTT'S let- ters to his daughter-in-law are filled with that affectionate play- fulness which characterized his intercourse with his family. But about this time, the clouds, which he himself did not see, were preparing to burst over him. The difficulties in which he was involved, through a ruinous system of accommodation-hills, had accumulated to a fearful extent, and become inextricable. The catastrophe was precipitated by the commercial crisis of 1825. The bills of CONSTABLE'S house were dishonoured by the Lon- don correspondents, HURST, RosiNsoN, and Co.; and their crash instantly brought the house of BALLANTYNE, in which Sir WALTER was a partner, to the ground. On the 17th of January 1826, BALLANTYNE and Co. stopped payment; and soon after- wards the partners made over all their property to trustees for the benefit of their creditors. All was lost to Sir WALTER but his honour. How nobly he preserved that, and by what efforts and sacrifices he raised his character even beyond its former lofty elevati, )n, is generally known to the world : but every circum- stance of this eventful period is now clearly placed before us,—his

disasters, his fears, his hopes, his sorrows, 'ais consolations, his unparalleled firmness, and indomitable courage. This remarkable volume presents one of the finest spec,mens of what has been called the noblest spectacle even for ttle gods themselves—a great and good man struggling with adversity.

The fulness of various and interesting matter is such, that its very abundance makes the task of selection difficult. In our present extracts, our object is to give a few traits of the picture of Sir WALTER Scores mind when under the pressure of calamity : we may return to the more miscellaneous topics afterwards. Sir WALTER, it must be premised, kept a regular diary, which he began in 1825, and which in weal or wo he appears never to have neglected. Mr. LOCKHART gives the greater part of this invaluable journal ; and it is from it that almost all the following extracts are made.

ECONOMICAL RESOLUTIONS,

" December 25, 1S25.—I here register =purpose to practise economies. I have little temptation to do otherwise. Abbotsford is all that I can make it, and too large for the property. So I resolve-

" No more building ; " No putchases of land, till times are quite safe;

" No buying books or expensive trifles—I mean to any extent ; and " Clearing off incutnbrances, with the returns of this year's labour :

" Which resolutions, with health and my habits of industry, will make me C sleep in spite of thunder.'

6, After all, it is hard that the vagabond stocksjobbing Jews should, for their own purposes, make such a shake of credit as now exists in London, and menace the credit of men trading on sure funds, like Horst and Robinson. It is just like a set of pickpockets, who raise a mob, in which honest folks are knocked down and plundered, that they may pillage safely in the midst of the confusion they have excited.

HIS VA MILT.

" December 7.—Dined quietly with Lady S— and Anne. Anne is practis- ing Scottish songs, which I take as a kind compliment to my own taste, as hers leads her chiefly to foreign music. I think the good girl sees that I want and must miss her sister's peculiar talent in singing the airs of our native country, which, imperfect as my musical ear is, make, and always have made the most pleasant impression on me. And ao, if she puts a constraint on herself for my sake I •mn only say, in requital, God bless her.

"I have much to comfort me in the present aspect of my family. My eldest son independent in fortune, united to an affectionate wife—and of good hopes in ids profession ; my second, with a good deal of talent, and in the way, I i

trust, of cultivating t to good purpose; Anne, an honest, downright. good Scottish lass, in whom I could only wish to correct a spirit of satire ; arid Lock. hart is Lockhart, to whom I can most willingly confide the happiness of the daughter who chose him and whom he has chosen. But my dear wife, the partner of early cares and successes is, I fear, frail in health—though I trust and pray she may see me out. Indeed, if this troublesome complaint goes on, it bodes no long existence. My brother was affected with the same weakness; which, before he was fifty, brought on mortal symptoms. The poor Major had been rather a free liver. But my father, the most abstentious of men, save when the duties of hospitality required him to be very moderately free with his bottle—and that was very seldom—had the weakness of the powers of retention which now annoys me; and he, I think, was not above seventy when cut off. Square the odds, and good night Sir Walter about sixty. I care not, if I leave my name unstained and my family properly settled. Sat eat rixissc.

MEDITATIONS ON RUIN.

"December 18.—Poor T. S. called again yeaterdy. Through his incoherent, miserable tale, I could see that he had exhausted each access to credit, and yet fondly imagines that, bereft of all his accustomed indulgences, he can work with a literary zeal unknown to his happier days. I hope he may labour enough to gain the mere support of his family. For myself, if things go badly in London, the magic wand of the Unknown will be shivered in his grasp. He must then, faith, be termed the Tort-well-known. The feast of fancy will be over with the feeling of independence. He shall no longer have the delight of waking in the morning with bright ideas in his mind, hasten to commit them to paper, and count them monthly, as the means of planting such scaurs, and purchasing such wastes; replacing dreams of fiction by other prospective visions of walks by

' Fountain.healls, and pathless groves; Places which pale passion loves.'

This cannot be; but I may work substantial husbandry, i. e. write history, and such concerns. They will not be received with the same enthusiasm ; at least I much doubt, the general knowledge that an author must write for his bread, at least for improving his pittance, degrades him and his production in thepublic eye. He falls into the second rate rank of estimation :

. While the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad.

Tim high.mettled racer's a back on the road.'

It is a bitter thought : but if tears start at it, let them flow. My heart clings to the place I have created. There is scarce a tree on it that does not owe its being to me.

" What a life mine hoc bean! half educated, almost wholly neglected, or left to myself; stuffing my head with most nonsensical trash, anti undervalued by most of my companions for a time; getting forward, and held a bold and clever fellow, contrary to the opinion of all who thought me a mere dreamer; broken-hearted for two years; toy heart handsomely pierced again, but the crack will remain to my dying day. Rich and poor .four or five times ; once on the verge of ruin, yet opened a new source of wealth almost overflowing. Now to be broken in my pitch of pride, and nearly winged, (unless good news should come,) because London chooses to be in an uproar, and in the tumult of bulls and bears a poor inoffensive lion like myself is pushed to the wall. But What is to be the end of it ? God knows; and so ends the catechism.

" Nobody in this end can lose a penny by me, that is one comfort. Men will think pride has had a fall. Let them indulge their own pride in thinking that my fall will make them higher, or seem so at least. I have the satisfaction to recollect that my prosperity has been of advantage to many, and to hope that some at least will forgive my transient wealth on account of the innocence of any intentions, and my real wish to do good to the poor. Sall hearts, too, at Darnick, and the cottages of Abbotsford. I have half resolved never to see the place again. How could I tread my ball with such a diminished crest? How [olive spoor indebted man, where I was once the wealthy—the honoured? I was to have gone there on Saturday in joy and prosperity to receive my friends. My dogs will wait for me in vain. It is foolish—but the thoughts of parting from these dumb creatures have moved me more than any of the painful reflec. tions I have put down. Poor things, I must get them "kind masters. There may be yet those who, loving me, may love my dog because it has been mine. I must end these gloomy forebodiugs, or I shall lose the tone of mind with which men should meet distress. I feel my dogs' feet on my knees. I hear them whining and seeking me everywhere. This is nonsense, but it is what they would do could they Imre how things may be. An odd thought strikes

HOPES.

" January 3, 1826.—Yet all is for the best. When I returned, signed a bond fur 10,000/., which will disencumber me of all pressing claims; when I get forwards Woodstock and Nap. there will be 12,000/. and upwards; and I hope to add 3,0001. against this time next year, or the Devil must hold the

dice. J. B. writes me seriously on the carelessness of any style. I did not think I had been more careless than usual ; but I dare say he is right. I will be more cautious.

4'nu .7aary 5.—Got the desired accommodation, which will put .1. B. quite straight, but am a little anxious still about Constable. Ile has ionnense stock, to be sure, and most valuable, but he may have sacrifices to make to convert a large preportion of it into ready money. The accounts from Lon Jon are most disastrous. 3Ially wealthy persons totally ruined, anti many, many more, have beeu obliged to purchase their safety at a price they. will feel all their lives. I do not hear things have been so bid in Edinburgh; and J. B. 'a business has been transacted by the banks with liberality."

THE CATASTROPHE.

" january 16, 17, 18.—Came through cold roads to as cold news. Hurst and Robinson have suffered a bill to come back upon Constable ; which, I suppose, infers the ruin of both houses. We shall soon see. Dined with the Skenes.

James Ballantvne this morning, good honest fellow, with a visage as black as the crook. Ile hopes no salvation ; has indeed taken measures to stop. It is hard, after having fought such a battle. Have apologivd fur not attending the Royal Society Club, who have a gaudeatntis on this day, and seemed to count much on my being the preses. Sly old acquaintance, Miss Elia rbeth Clei k, sister of Willie, died suddenly. I caunot choose but wish it had been Sir W. S. ; and yet the feeling is unmanly. I have Anne, my wife, and Charles to look after. I felt rather sneaking as I came home from the Parliament House—felt as if I were liable monstrari digito in no very pleasant way. But this must be borne cum coterie ; and, thank God, however uncomfortable, I do not feel despondent. I have seen Cadell, 13allantyne, and Hogarth : all advise me to execute a trust of my property for payment of my obligations; 90 does John Gibson, and so I resolve to do. My wife and daughter are gloomy, bet yet patient. Ile that sleeps too long in the morning, let him borrow the pillow of a debtor. So says the Spaniard, and so say 1. I hail of course an indifferent night of it. I wish these two days were over ; but the winst is over. The Bank of Scotland has behaved very well, expressing a resolution to serve Constable's house and me to the uttermost ; but as no one can say to what extent Hurst and Robinson's failure may go, borrowing would but linger it OUI."

REFLECTIONS AND RP:SOLUTIONS.

" January 22.—I felt neither dishonoured nor broken down by the bad—now really bad news I have received. I have walked my last on the domains I have planted—sate the last time in the halls I have built. But death would have taken them from me if misfixtune had spared them. My poor people, whom I loved SO well ! There is just another die to turn up against me in this run of

; i

e.--if I should break my magic wand n the fall from this ele- pliant, and lose my popularity with my fortune, then Woodstock and Bony may bothgo to the paper-maker; and I may take tosinokin,g cigars and drinking grog, or turn devotee, and intoxicate the brain another way. In prospect of absolute ruin, I wonder if they would let me leave the Court of Session. I would like methinks, to go abroad, ' And lay my bones far from the Tared.'

But I find my eyes moistening, and that will not do. I will not yield with- out a fight for it. It is odd when I set myself to work doggedly, as Dr. Johnson would say, I am exactly the same man that I ever was—neither low. spirited nor distrait. In prosperous times I have sometimes felt my fancy and powers of language Ng, but adversity is to me at least a tonic and bracer ; the fountain is awakened from its inmost recesses, as if the spirit of affliction bad troubled it in his passage. "Poor Mr. Pole, the harper, sent to offer me 500!. or 600/. probably his all. There is much good in the world, after all. But I will involve no friend, eithtr rich or poor. My own right hand shall do it, else will I be done in the slap.n language, and undone in common parlance. "l am glad that, beyond my on-n family, who are, excepting Lady S., young and able to bear sorrow, of which this is the first taste to some of client, most of the hearts are past aching which would have once been inconsolable on this occasion. I do not mean that many will not seriously regret, and some per- haps lament my misfiwtimes. lint my dear mother, my almost sister, Christy Rutherford, poor Will Erskine—those would have been mourners indeed. '6 Well, exertion, exertion. 0, Invention, rouse thyself. May man be kind; may God be propitious. The worst is, I never quite know when I am right or wrong; and Ballantyne, who does know in some degree, will fear to tell me. Lockhart would be worth gold just now, but he too might be too diffident to speak broad out. All my hope is in the continued indulgence of the public. I have a funeral letter to the burial of Chevalier Yelin, a foreigner of learning and talent, who has died at the Royal Hotel. He wished to be introduced to me, and was to have read a paper before the Royal Society when this intro- duction was to have taken place. I was not at the Society that evening ; and the poor gentleman was taken ill at the meeting, and unable to proceed. Ile went to his bed and never rose again ; and now his funeral will be the first public place I shall appear at. Hu dead, and I ruined. This is what you call a meeting."

SELF4USTIFICATION. (LETTER TO MR. LOCKHART.)

"January 20.—It is easy, no doubt, for any friend to blame me for entering into connexion with commercial matters at all. But I wish to know what I could have done better; excluded from the bar, and then from all profits for six years, by my colleague's prolonged life. Literature was not in those days what poor Constable has made it ; and, with my little capital, I was too glad to make commercially the means of supporting my family. I got but 6001. for the Lay of the Last Minstrel, and—it was a price that made men's hair stand on end-1,0001. for Marmion. I have been far from suffering by James Bal. lantyne. I owe it to him to say, that his difficulties, as well 39 his advantages, are owing to me. I trusted too much to Constable's assurances of his own and his correspondents' stability; but yet I believe he Wag only sanguine. The up- shot is just what Hurst and Co. and Constable may be able to pay me; if 15s. in the pound, I shall not complain of my loss, for I have gained many thou- sands in my day. But while I live, I shall regret the downfall of Constable's house; for never did there exist so intelligent and so liberal an establishtnent. 'f hey went too far when money was plenty, that is certain ; yet if every mehor in Britain had taxed himself half a year's income, he should have kept up the house which first broke in upon the monopoly of the London trade, and made letters what they now are."

me : when I die, will the journal of these days be taken out of the ebony cabinet at Abbotsford, and read with wonder that the well-seeming baronet should ever have experienced the risk of such a hitch? Or, will it be found in some obscure lodging-house, where the decayed son of chivalry had bung up his scutcheon, and where one or two old friends will look grave, and whisper to each other, Poor gentleman a well meaning man '—' nobody's enemy but his own thought his parts would never wear out'—'family poorly left'—' pityhe took that foolish title.' Who can answer this question ?" LEAVING HIS HOME.

4 01... a rch 13.-1 have hinted in these notes, that I am not entirely free from a sort of gloomy fits, %vita a fluttering of heart and depression of spirits, just as if 1 knew not what was going to befall me. I can fometimes resist this success- fully, but it is better to evade than to combat it. The hang-dog sairit may have originated in the confusion and chucking about of our old furniture, the stripping uf walls of pictures, and rooms of ornaments: the leaving of a house we have so long called our home, is altogether melancholy enough. I am glad Lady S. does not mind it ; and yet I wonder, too. She insists on my remaining till Wednesday, not knowing What I suffer. Meanwhile, to make v recusant spirit do penance, I have set to work to clear away papers and pack them for my journey. What a strange medley of thoughts such a task produces. There lie letters which made the heart throb when received, now lifeless and uniute- resting—as are perhaps their writers. Riddles which have been read—schemes which time has destroyed or brought to maturity—memorials of friendships and enmities which are now alike faded. Thus does the ring of Saturn con- sume itself. To-day annihilates yesterday, as the old tyrant swallowed his children, and the snake its tail. But I must say to my Journal as poor Byron did to Moore—. D—n it, Tom, don't be poetical.'"

DOMESTIC GRIEFS. (LETTER TO MR. CROXER.)

"March 19.—As for my affairs, which you allude to so kindly, I can safely ray, that no oak ever quitted its withered leaves more easily than I have done what might be considered as great wealth. I wish to God it were as easy for me to endure impending misfortunes of a very different kind. You may have heard that Lockhart's only child is very ill ; and the delicate habits of the unfor- tunate boy have ended in a disease of the spine, which is a hopeless calamity.'•, and in my daughter's present situation may have consequences on her health terrible for Inc to anticipate. To add to ;his, though it needs no addition—for the poor child's voice is day and night in my ear-1 have, from a consultation of physicians, a most melancholy account of my wife's health, the faithful comps- pion of rough and smooth, weal and wo, for so many years. Sn, if you compare me to Brutus in the harsher points" of his character, you must also allow me some of his stoical fortitude—, no man bears sorrow better.'"

HIS LIFE AT ABBOTsFORD•

"April 1.—Er to10 die disce °me& Rose at seven or sooner ; studied and wrote till breakfast, with Anne, about a quarter before ten. Lady Scott seldom able to rise till twelve or one. Then I write or study again till one. At that hour to.day I drove to Huntley. Burn ; and walked home by one of the hundred and one pleasing paths which I have made through the woods 1 have planted, now chatting with Tom Purdie, who carries my plaid and speaks when he pleases, telling long stories of hits and misses in shooting twenty years back—sometimes chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy—and sometimes attending to the humours of two curious little terriers of the Dandie Dimuont breed, together with a uoble wolf-hound puppy which Glengarry has given me to replace Maida. This brings me dean Cu the vely moment I do tell—the

i rest is prophetic. I shall feel drowsy when this book s lucked, and perhaps sleep until Dalgliesh brings the dinuer summons. Then I shall have a chat with Lady S. and Anne; some broth or soup, a slice of plain meat—and man's chief business, in Dr. Jolniaon's estimation, is briefly despatched. Hal' an hour with my family, and half an hour's coquetting with a cigar, a tumbler of weak whisky and water, and a novel perhaps, lead on to tea, which sometimes consumes another half hour of chat ; then write and read in my own room till ten o'clock at night ; a little bread, and then a glass of porter, and to bed. And this, very rarely varied by a visit from some one, is the terior of my daily life— and a very pleasant one indeed, were it not for apprehensions about Lady S. and poor Mamie Hugh. The former will, I think, do well ; fur the latter—I fear—I fear--" HIS WIFE'S ILLNESS.

"May 9.—On visiting Lady Stott's sick-room this morning, I found her suffering, and I doubt if she knew me. Yet, after breakfast, she seemed serene and composed. The worst is, she will not speak out about the symptoms under which she labours. Sad, sad work I I am under the most melancholy apprehension ; for what constitution can hold out under these continued and wasting attacks? My niece, Anne Scott, a prudent, sensible, and kind young woman, arrived to-day, having come down to assist us in our distress from so far'as Cheltenham. This is a great consolation. Henry Scott carries the county without opposition. "May 6.—The same scene of hopeless (almost) and unavailing anxiety. Still welcoming me with a smile, and asserting she is better. I fear the disease is too deeply entwined with the principles of life. Still labouring at this Re- ' view, without heart or spirits to finish it. I am a tolerable stoic, but preach to inyself in vain.

Are these things then necessities? Then let us meet them like necessities:" HER DEATH.

"May 15.—Received the melancholy intelligence that all is over at Abbots. lord.

"Abbotsford, May 16.—She died at nine in the morning, after being very ill for two days—easy at last. I arrived here late last night. Anne is worn out, and has bad hysterics, which returned on my arrival. Her broken accents were like those of a child, the language as well as the tones broken, but in the most gentle voice of submission. Poor mamma—never return again— gone for ever—a better place."f hen, when she came to herself, she spoke with sense, freedom, and strength of mind, till her weakness returned. It would have been inexpressibly moving to use as is stranger—what was it then to the father and the husband? For myself, I scarce know how I feel, some- times as firm as the Bo.ss Rock, sometimes as weak as the water that breaks on it. I am as alert at thinking and deciding as I ever was in my life. Yet, when I contrast what this plac: now is, with what it has been not long since, I think my heart will break. Lonely, aged, deprived of my family—all but poor Anne; an impoverished, an embarrassed man, deprived of the sharer of my thoughts and counsels, who could always talk down my sense of the calamitous apprehensions which break the heart that must bear them alone. Even her foibles were of service to me, by giving Inc things to think of beyond my weary self- reflections.

I have seen her. The figure I beheld is, awl is not my Charlotte—my thirty years' companion. There is the same symmetry of form, though those limbs are rigid which were once so gracefully elastic—but that yellow masque, with pinched features, which seems to mock life rather than emulate it, can it be the face that was once so full of lively expression? I will not look on it again. Anne thinks her little changed, because the latest idea she had formed of her mother is as she appeared under circumstances of extreme pain. Bline go back to a period of comparative ease. If 1 write lung in this way, 1 Shall write down my resolution; which 1 ahould rather write up, if I could. 1 wonder how I shall do with the large portion of thoughts which were hers for thirty years. I suspect they will be hers yet for a long time at least. But I will not blase cambric and crape in the public eye, like a disconsolate widower, that most affected of all characters.

"May 17.—Last night, Anne, after conversing with apparent ease, dropped suddenly down as she rose from the supper-table, arid lay six or severs minutes as if dead. Clarkson, however, lias no fear of therm affections. 14 May 18.—.Another day, and a bright one to the external world, again open, on us; the air soft, and the flowers smiling, and the leaves glittering. They cannot refresh her to whom mild weather was a natural enjoyment. Cerements of lead and of wood alraad.y hold her ; cold earth must have her soon. But it is not my Charlotte, it s5 not the bride of my youth, the mother of my children, that will be laid among the ruins of Dryburgli, which we have so often visited in gayety and pastime. No, no. She is sentient and conscious of my emotions—somewhere—somehow : where we cannot tell; how we cannot tell; yet would I not at this moment renounce the mysterious yet certain hope that I shall see her in a better world, for all that this world can give me. The necessity of this separation, that necessity which rendered it even a relief, that and patience must be my comfort. I do not experience those paroxysms of grief which others do on the same occasion. I can exert myself, and speak even cheerfully with the poor girls. But alone, or if any thing touches me, the choking sensation ! I have been to her room: there was no voice in it—no stirring ; the pressure of the coffin was visible on the bed, but it had been re- moved elsewhere ; all was neat, as she loved it, but all was calm—calm as death. I remembered the last sight of her : she raised herself in bed, and tried to turn her eyes after me, and said with a sort of smile. ' You all have such melancholy faces."These were the last words I ever heard her utter ; and I hurried away, for she did not seem quite conscious of what she said—when I returned, immediately demisting, she was in a deep sleep. It is deeper now. This was but seven days since.

" They are arranging the chamber of death ! that which was long the apart. ment of connubial happiness, and of whose arrangements (better than in richer houses) she was so proud. They are treading fast and thick. For weeks you could have heard a foot-fall. Oh, my God !"

The deep feeling, yet strong resolution, with which Scorr bore his afflictions, are mingled with many other traits of character which will render the Diary an imperishable picture of his mind. One of these is the readiness with which he accommodated his thoughts, habits, and pursuits, to his altered state. Circum- stances indicative of his strict economy and seclusion, his un- wearied industry, and his attention to the smallest literary em- ployments from which remuneration might be derived, are recorded with unaffected simplicity and cheerfulness. On the last day of January, he says—" Since the 14th of this month, no guest has broken bread in my house, save G. H. Gordon one morning at breakfast. This happened never before since I had a house of my own. But I have played Abon Hassan long enough; and if the Caliph came I would turn him back again." In February he says—" Ballantyne breakfasted, and is to nego- ciate about Malachi* with Blackwood. It reads not amiss ; and if I can get a few guineas for it, 1 shall not be ashamed to take them ; for, paying L'eady Scott, I have just left between 3/. and 41. for any necessary occasion." He has been looking for a small lodging in Edinburgh, and says—" The place I looked at won't do ; but I must really cr some lodging ; for, reason or none, Dalgliesh won't leave me, and cries and makes a scene. Now, if I staid alone in a little set of chambers, he would serve greatly for my accommodation." DALGLIESH, Mr. LOCKIIART tells Us, was Sir WAtaza's butler: he said lie cared not how much his wages were reduced—but go he would not. We afterwards find it recorded that lie got 251. from BLACKWOOD, for Malachi's Letters, some payments for articles in the Quarterly Review, and 10/. from BLACKWOOD for a Magazine article on GILT'S novel called Tlw Omen. In respect to this last item he says—" Time was I would not have taken these small tithes of mint and cummin ; but scornful dogs will eat dirty puddings, and I, with many depending on me, must do the best I can with my time ; God help me." In May, there is an entry dated "Mrs. Brown's lodgings, North St. David-street :" he says, very characteristically—" Well, here I am in Arden. And I may say with Touchstone, 'when I was at home I was in a better place.' I must, when there is occasion, draw to my own Bailie Nicol Jarvie's consolation, 'one cannot carry the comforts of' the Saut-market about with one.' Were I at ease in mind, I think the body is very well cared for." Soon afterwards, we find him giving "a poor poetess" U.; and on the same day, the in- formation that his house in Castle Street was about to be sold, draws from him an expression of' natural regret—" So farewell. poor No. 39. What a portion of my life has been spout there! It has sheltered me from the prime of life to its decline; and now I must bid good-by to it. I have bid good-by to my poor wife, so long its courteous and kind mistress. And I need not care about the empty rooms; yet it gives me a turn. Never mind—all in the day's work." Under all his afflictions, the buoyancy of SCOTT'S spirit never forsook him. He was animated, too, by the success of his heroic

exertions, (exertions, however, which at length brought him to a premature grave ;) and he recovered much of his former cheerful- ness. The concluding part of the volume contains a lively and

most entertaining account, extracted from his own diary, of his journey to London and Paris in quest of materials for his Life of NAPOLEON. We leave him in the end of 1826, established, with his daughter ANNE, in a furnished house in Walker Street, Edinburgh, and continuing his life of seclusion and toil.

• Letters of Malachi Malagrowther ; philippics against the threatened suppression of Small Notes, originally published in the Edinburgh Weekly Journal, afterwards as a pamphlet, and which attracted much notice both in England and Scotland in the spring of 1926.