LITERARY SPECTATOR.

THE WAVERLEY NOVELS—FORTHCOMING EDITION.*

OUR excellent contemporary the Editor of the Literary Gazette, whose inventive powers are so well known to his friends and the public, has lately framed an instrument, by means of which strange discoveries may be expected. It is a telescope, more wonderful than the one commemorated by BUTLER, which converted a mouse iota an elephant ; for not only may we percewe by its aid what is pas::ing five hundred mile!; off, but, according to our contemporary's account, we may discern the progress of bodies that have not yet been put in motion. There are other and more curious properties beloneinty to this wonderful instrument. It has already enabled the learned Editor to discover the harvest-moon, on the 25th April, in latitude 51. The Morning Journal says we are to have no summer this year; and here

st Edinburgh, MO. Cadell and Co.

is proof pregnant of the truth of the assertion. The position of the said harvest-moon seems to have been quite as singular as the period

of her appearance : she was due north—and in conjunction with a star

whose latitude was 73°, and which, at the period of its right ascension, was seen by our contemporary in the far horizon, thus proving, contrary to Sir BOYLE ROACHE'S authority, that a bird is not the only personage that can figure in two places at the same time. We frankly confess, were we not well assured that our contemporary studies on nothing stronger than eau sucree, we should have been inclined to conclude, that under the figures of telescopes and full moons, especially accompanied, as they seem to have been, by symptoms of double vision, there was concealed sonic secret meaning, intended for the initiated in literary mysteries ; and that the glass of which he boasts so much, was none other than that from which the greatest of poets and of men have so often drawn inspiration.

For ourselves, who have no metaphysical aid to help us, we are well content to receive our impressions of the forthcoming edition of the work whose title we have quoted above, through the medium of a pair of ordinary spectacles, and with no other light than that of a patent table-lamp, made by the ingenious Mr. SMITHURST.

This edition is to consist of forty volumes. It will contain all the novels of Sir WALTER SCOTT, from Waverley down to Woodstock; and will cost only ten pounds. It will be ornamented with numerous and finely-executed plates, by the most expert engravers, from designs by the best hrtists ; and it will be enriched with what its possessors cannot fail to deem a decoration of infinitely higher value—numerous notes and illustrations by the author. These additions, it is calculated, will be equal to two volumes. The work will not be a mere reprint: numerous passages, which the hurry of composition or the accidental carelessness of printers and correctors had left in an imperfect state, will receive the high advantage of the finishing touches of the same pencil that first sketched them. The new edition, therefore, will be at once the cheapest and the most correct that has issued from the press. So much for the work in general.

Were it possible for a moment to envy a lot of rare felicity purchased by the noblest deserts, we should, of all the men that at present live and breathe upon the earth, envy that of the great Author of the Waverley Novels. His fame sprang up in a night. It burst forth, as was said with far less truth of SIViFT'S, like the Irish rebellion fifty thousand strong, when no mortal expected it. The Lay placed him at once in the rank of the first poets, and Waverley in the rank of the first novelists, that Britain had produced. No author of past ages or of the present time has written so much and so well; none ever drew so largely on the affectionate regard of his contemporaries—for that is the proper designation of the feeling entertained towards the excellent baronet ; none ever promised to live longer in the approbation of posterity. Partly from the vein of exquisite simplicity and of true and generous feeling that runs through all his acknowledged works, and partly from the high and hc nourable and unimpeached character of the man, no author exists, or perhaps ever existed, that has been less exposed to the attacks of malevolence. Criticism smoothed her brow, and dipped her pen in milk instead of gall, when she set herself to examine his labours. Yet though every endeavour has been made to spoil him (and the tithe of such indulgence has ruined hundreds), Sir WALTER SCOTT was of the stuffthat would not spoil. He has moved among his fellows as a kind-tempered man moves in a family of little children, that beset his path, hang by his coat-tails, play with his watch-chain, and court his notice in a thousand winning ways, all very pleasing, but not a whit more calculated to excite his vanity than the gambols of his favourite spaniel.

Of the present edition of the Novels, (it has been printed although not published,) the most 'interesting part is the General Preface ; in which Sir WALTER gives a brief outline of his history, and of the causes that, as he supposes, determined the peculiar bent of his genius. We have our doubts, notwithstanding the dictum of JOHNSON, of the principle of accidental direction of talent. We would rather say, that Sir WALTER read romances because his vigour of fancy and quickness of observation had fitted him to frame and therefore to relish such forms of Eterature, than that the perusal of romances led him to their composition. But we are not writing a treatise on metaphysics.Sir WALTER, besides his lameness, was a delicate boy, and exhibited little promise of that bodily vigour and sound health, which, next to such an understanding as his, are the greatest possible blessings. At an early age he had the misfortune to burst a blood-vessel ; and he was chained to his couch while full of "the spirits, the appetite, and the impatience of fifteen," without being allowed for several weeks to speak or to move, lest motion or exercise might retard his cure. It was whilst in this state of inaction rather than of suffering, that he was allowed, because no other enjoyment was accessible, to devour at will whatever books of fiction came within his reach.

"There was at tb is ti me a circulating library in Edinburgh, founded, I believe, by the celebrated Allan Ramsay, which, besides containing a most respectable collection of books of every description, was, as might have been expected, pe culiarly rich in works of-fiction. It exhibited specimens of every kind, from the romances of chivalry, and the ponderous folios of Cyrus and Cassandra, down to the most approved works of later times. I was plunged into this great ocean of reading without compass or pilot ; and unless when some one bad the charity to play at chess with me, I was allowed to do nothing save

read, from morning to night. I was, in kindness and pity,—which was per

haps erroneous, however natural,—permitted to select my subjects of study at my own pleasure, upon the same principle that the humours of children are indulged to keep them out of mischief. As my taste and appetite were

gratified in nothing else, I indemnified myself by becoming a glutton of books. Accordingly, I believe I read almost all the romances, old plays, and epic poetry, in that formidable collection ; and, no doubt, was unconsciously amassing materials for the task in which it has been nay lot to be so much employed."—General Preface, p. v. The perusal of romance, after the first novelty was over, brought with it, as it always does to a strong mind, a taste for something more rational; and voyages and travels next attracted his undivided attention. These in their turn gave way, as his years advanced, to the common amusements of young men, and to the treatises more adapted for the profession of the law, which he had chosen. For some years he continued to study with diligence at the Scottish bar ; until, happily for the world, the success of a few ballads opened uo the sealed fountains of his former delights, and converted a painstaking lawyer into a follower of literature. So far back as the year 1800, Sir WALTER SCOTT had planned, and even commenced, a prose work of fiction ; the only completed chapter of which he has given in the Appendix to the General Preface. His debut as a novelist did not take place till fourteen years after, although Waverley was in part written in 1805. The history 8f this admirable tale is too curious to be omitted or abridged.

" My early recollections of the Highland scenery and customs made so favourable an impression in the poem called the Lady of the Lake, that I was induced to think of attempting something of the same kind in prose. I had been a good deal in the Highlands at a time when they were much less accessible, and much less visited, than they have been of late years ; and was acquainted with many of the old warriors of 1745, who were, like most veterans, easily induced to fight their battles over vain, for the benefit of a willing listener like myself. It naturally occurred to me, that the ancient traditions and high spirit of a people, who, livingaig a civilized age and country, retained so strong a tincture of manners belonging to an early period of society, must al:brd a subject favourable for romance, if it should not prove a curious tale

marred in the telling. • " It was with some idea of this kind, that, about the year 1R05, I threw togather about about one-third part of the first volume of Waverley. It was advertised to be published by the late Mr. John Ballantyne, bookseller in Edinburgh, under the name of Waverley, or 'tis Fifty Years sinee,'—a title afterwards altered to 'tis Sixty Years since,' that the actual date of publication might be made to correspond with the period in which the scene was

Having proceeded as far, I think, as the Seventh Chapter, I showed my work to a critical friend, whose opinion was unfavourable ; and having then some poetical reputation, I was unwilling to risk the loss of it by attempting a new style of composition. I therefore threw aside the work 1 bad commenced, without either reluctance or remonstrance. I ought to add, that though my ingenious friend's sentence was afterwards reversed, on an appeal to the public, it cannot be considered as any imputation on his amid taste ; for the specimen subjected to his criticism did not extend beyond the departure of the hero for Scotland, and consequently, had not entered upon the part of the story which was filially found most interesting.

"Be that as it may, this portion of the manuscript was laid aside in the drawers of an old writing-desk ; which, on my first coming to reside at Abbotsford, in 1811, was placed in a lumber-garret, and entirely forgotten. Thus, though I sometimes, among other literary avocations, turned my thoughts to the continuation of the romance which I had commenced, yet as I could not find what I had already written, after searching such repositories as were within my reach, and was too indolent to attempt to write it anew from memory, I as often laid aside all thoughts of that nature."

The lint circumstance that awakened in Sir WALTER a desire to finish Waverley, was the splendid success of his friend Miss EDGEwowrifs Novels. He was desirous, in the spirit of nationality so honourably cherished by our Northern brethren,

" for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some usefu' plan or bulk to make,—"

to do somethin,, " winch might introduce her natives to those of the sister kingdom in a more favourable light than they had been placed

ha halo, and tend to procure sympathy for their virtues and indulgence

for their foibles." This laudable wish was further stimulated by a circums1 ance that occurred in 1807, when hir WALTER was requested by

Mr. MintitAY, the publisher, to correct and complete the posthumous

work of Mr. JOSEPH STRUTT, QUCOM-HOD-Hall. Of that work Sir WALTER wrote the concluding chapter, in a manner so satisfactory

as gave him hope that he might in time " become free of the craft of

romance-miting." Queen-Hoo-Hall we have not seen for many years. Sir WALTER attributes its failure 40 a superabundant display of anti quarian lore. It appeared to us, when we perused it, that STRU'fr did not so much fail from abundance of knowledge, as from lack of power. However that may be, our author imagined he saw the possibility of avoiding the dangers that had proved fatal to Queen-Hoo-Hall; and we need not add that he saw correctly. "lily thoughts, therefore, returned more than once to the tale which I had actually commenced, and accident at length threw the lost sheets in my way. "I happened to want some fishing-tackle for the use of a guest, when it occurred to me to search the old writing-desk already mentioned, in which I used to keep articles of that nature. I got access to it with sonic difficulty ; and in looking for lines and flies, the long-lost manuscript presented itself. I immediately set to work to complete it, according to my original purpose. And here I must frankly confess, that the mode in which I conducted the story scarcely deserved the success which the romance afterwards attained. The tale of Waverley was put together with so little care, that I cannot boast of having sketched any distinct plan of the work. The whole adventures of Waverley, in his movements up and down the country with the Highland eateran Bean Lean, are managed without much skill. It suited best, however, the road I wanted to travel, and permitted me to introduce some descriptions of scenery and manners, to which the reality gave an interest which the powers of the author might have otherwise failed to attain for them. And though I have been in other instances a sinner hi this sort, I do mot recollect any of these novels, in which I have transgressed so widely as in the first of the series."

Worerlay e as published in 181-1, Moe years after it had been begun. The copyright was not, as has been reported, offered to the London booksellers, nor in fact to any bookseller, the author being determined to keep it in his own hands. It was published Nvitjiout a name: it can hardly, however, be said that it was left to lind Ncay without any of the usual recommendations. It was reviewed by 111r. JEFFREY, and eloquently and warmly eulogized; and though not immediately given to Sir WALTER by general readers, there could be little doubt, from the tenour of one paragraph of the criticism, that the reviewer meant it should be. In fact, notwithstanding all the pains taken to avoid disclosure, and all the rumours that circulated, we never, after the first twelve months, met one person of any reading that seriously doubted the author's identity. Of the motives and means'for concealing his name from his readers, Sir WALTER gives an interesting and amusing account.

" My original motive for publishing the work anonymously, was the consciousness that it was an experiment on the public taste, which might very probably fail, and therefore there was no risk of discomfiture. For this purpose considerable precaution were used to preserve secrecy. My old friend and schoolfellow, Mr. James Ballantyne, who printed these novels, had the exclusive task of corresponding with the author, who thus had not only the advantage of his professional talents, but also of his critical abilities. The original manuscript, or, as it•is technically called, copy, was transcribed under Mr. Ballantyne's eye by confidential persons ; nor was there an instance of treachery during the many years in which these precautions were resorted to, although various individuals were employed at different times. Double proof-sheets were regularly printed off. One was forwarded to the author by Mr. Ballantyne; and the alterations which it received were, by his own hand, copied upon the other proof. sheetfor the use of the printers, so that even the corrected proofs of the author were never seen in the printingoffice."

The fact of the corrections of the proof-sheets not being in Sir WALTERS handwriting, we recollect to have seen stated some years before i\ 'Jr. CONSTABLE'S failure ; and WC believe the practice was continued after all shadow of doubt about the author had vanished.

In men of genius, for the moat part, there is as much of the child

at sixty as at six. Small wits have no infancy ; they are little men when they come into the world, and little men when they go out of it. Sir WALrent, we have no (loubt, were he the same in lith and limb as he was fifty years ago, would even yet venture his laurels in a bicker, with as little hesitation as when he sallied out to contend with " Green Breeks" of the Potterrow. His persisting in his incognito when all reasons for remaining concealed had been removed—resolved " To keep something to himsel' he'd hardly tell to ony"— is laughably indicative of the naivelif (we are sorry to use a French word, but we lack an appropriate one in our own language) that breaks out in all that the excellent baronet says and does.

" If I am asked further reasons for the conduct I have lone. bserved, I can only resort to the explanation supplied by a critic as friendly as he is intelligent,—namely, that the mental organization of the novelist must he characterized, to speak craniologically, by an extraordinary developement of the passion of delitescency I the rathersuspect sonic natural disposition of this kind ; for, from the instant I perceived the extreme curiosity manifested tin the subject, I felt a secret satisfaction in baffling it, for which, when its unimportance is considered, I do not well know bow to account."

Of course it was not to be supposed that the authorship of the

novels would remain a secret from Sir WALTER'S friends : and it was even possible that direct acknowledgments of it might be made at a moment of inadvertency. One of these is narrated in an apocryphal book written soon after Lord BvaoN's death; the value of winch was pretty fairly settled in the Westmimter Review, we believe by Mr. HOBHOUSE. Sir WALTER takes notice of the anecdote, though it was hardly worth his while.

"In Captain Medwyn's Conversations of Lord Byron, the reporter states

himself to have asked my noble and highly-gifted friend, If he was certain about these novels being Sir Walter Scott's ?"1•0 which Lord Byron replied, 'Scott as much as owned himself the Author of Waverley to me in Murray's shop. I was talking to him about that novel, and lamented that its author had not carried back the story nearer to the time of the Revolution :' Scott, entirely off his guard, replied, ' Ay, I might have done so ; but—' there he stopped. It was in vain to correct himself ; he looked confused, and relieved his embarrassment by a precipitate retreat.' " " I have,' says Sir Walter, in his quiet and inimitable way, no recollection whatever of this scene taking place; and I should have thought that I was more likely to have Iwtzlie,Ithan to appear confused.' " Wo have said that the fact of Sir WALTER'S beingthe author of the novels was not loitg doubted by any person of reading: there were, however, a few who, while they allowed that lh poetry with much of the filling-up was his, yet insisted that the groundwork of the tales was another's. Various persons were from time to time pointed out as this " other;" and amongst these we have often heard an ex-clergyman of Edinburgh mentioned. The late DUGALD STEWART, while he authoritatively denied the, truth of that ruinous., admitted, front his own knowledge of the man, that such works might net unreasonably have been expected from the pen of Dr. G. had it been employed in such a department of literature. A more prevalent report gave the Waverley Novels to Sir WALTER'S brother, Captain TriomAs Scow, An able critic in the Quarterly Review (the late Mr. ERSKINE of Kinnedder) adverted to this, if we recollect rightly in reviewing 014 Mortality ; and in doing so, announced the true author ill nearly direce terms. Sir WALTER -himself also mentions it ; and states to hiS readers the following fact, which is pretty conclusive of the dispute.

" The original manuscripts are all in existence, and entirely written (kw-resco i'r!PIT71s) in the author's own hand, excepting during the years 1818 and HD, when, being affected with severe illness, he was obliged to employ the assistance of a friendly amanuensis."

It was not, however, without some season that Cantain SCOTT'S name had been connected with romance-writing; for, though want of health prevented him from eilleriug on the task, he had actually planned a work of fiction, to the completion of which, in the judgment of Sir WALTER, he was every way competent ; and he had even chosen his hero. The anecdote—a characteristic one, and told in Sir WALTER'S best manner—which influenced Captain Scoffs choice, we shall give entire. It forms the third appendix to the General Preface, from which we have so larguly quoted ; the Erst consisting of two fragments of unfinished tales, and the second of the fourth and fifth chapters of the last volume of Queen-1100-1M. It was Captain SCOTT'S intention, Sir WALTER remarks, "to represent his youthful acquaintance (" Green Breeks") as emigrating to America, and encountering the dangers and hardships of the New World with the same dauntless spirit which he had displayed when a boy in his native country. He never, I believe," adds the baronet, " wrote a single line of the projected work." The story of "Green Breeks," which affection and genius have thus hallowed, is as follows.

ANECDOTE OF SCHOOL DAYS,

UPON WHICH MR. THOMAS SCOTT PIZOPOSED TO FOLIND .A, TALE OF FICTION.

" It is well known in the South that there is little or no boxing at the Scottish schools. About forty or fifty years ago, however, a far more dan

gerous mode of fighting, in parties or factions, was permitted in the streets of Edinburgh, to the great disgrace of the police, and danger of the parties concerned. These parties were generally formed from the quarters of the town in which the combatants resided, those of a particular square or district fighting against those of an adjoining one. Hence it happened that the children of the higher classes were often pitted against those of the lower, each taking their side according to the residence of their friends. So far as I recollect, however, it was unmingled either with feelings of democracy or aristocracy, or indeed with malice or of any kind towards the oppo site party. In fact, it was only a rough mode of play. Such contests were, . however, maintained with great vigour, with stones, and sticks, and fisticuffs, when one party dared to charge, and the other stood their ground. Of course mischief sometimes happened ; boys are said to have been killed at these Bickers, as they were called ; and serious accidents certainly took place, as many contemporaries can bear witness. " The author's father residing in George.square, in the southern side of Edinburgh, the boys belonging to that family, with others in the square, were arranged into a sort of company, to which a lady of distinction pre

sented a handsome set of colours. Now, this company or regiment, as a , matter of course, was engaged in weekly Warfare with the boys inhabiting 4 the Crosscauseway, Bristo-street, the Potterrow,—in short, the neighbouring suburbs. These last were chiefly of the lower rank, but hardy loons, who , threw stones to a hair's breadth, and were very rugged antagonists at close quarters. The skirmish sometimes lasted for a whole evening, until one

party or the other was victorious; when, if ours were successful, we drove the enemy to their quarters, and were usually chased back by the reinforcement of bigger lads who came to their assistance. If, on the contrary, we were pursued, as was often the case, into the precincts of our square, we were in our turn supported by our elder brothers, domestic servants, and similar auxiliaries.

"It followed, from our frequent opposition to each other, that though not knowing the names of our enemies, we were yet well acquainted with their appearance, and had nicknames for the most remarkable of them. One very

active and spirited boy might be considered as the principal leader in the II cohort of the suburbs. He. was, I suppose, thirteen or fourteen years old,

I finely made, tall, blue-eyed, with long fair hair, the very picture of a youthful Goth. This lad was always first in the charge, and last in the retreat—the 'I Achilles, at once, and Ajax, of the Crosscauseway. He was too formidable to us not to have a cognomen ; and, like that of a knight of old, it was taken from the most remarkable part of his dress, being a pair of old green livery breeches, which was the principal part of his clothing; for, like Pentapolin, according to Don Quixote's account, Green Breeks, as we called him, always entered the battle with bare arms, legs, and feet.

"It fell, that once upon a time, when the combat was at the thickest, this plebeian champion headed a sudden charge, so rapid.and furious, that all.fled before him. He was several paces before his comrades, and had actually laid his hands on the patrician standard, when one of our party, whom some misjudging friend had intrusted with a.:co'uteau de chasse, or hanger; inspired with a zeal for the honour of the corps, worthy of Major Sturgeon' himself, i struck poor Green Breeks over the head, with strength sufficient to cut him down. When this was seen, the casualty was so far beyond what had ever taken place before, that both parties fled different Ways, leavingpoor Green Breeks with his bright hair plentifully dabbled in blood, to the care of the watchman, who (honest man) took care not to know who had done the mis chief. The bloody hanger was flung into one of the Meadow ditches, and solemn secrecy was sworn on all hands ; but the remorse and terror of the actor were beyond all bounds, and his apprehensions of the most dreadful character. The wounded hero was for a few days in the Infirmary, the case being only a trifling one. But though inquiry was strongly pressed on him, no argument could make him indicate the person from whom he had received the wound, though he must have been perfectly well known.to him. When , he recovered, and was dismissed, the author and his brothers opened a communication with him, through the medium of a popular gingerbread baker, of whom both parties were customers, in order to tender a subsidy in name ' of smart-money. The sum would excite ridicule were I to name it ; but sure I am, that the pockets of the noted Green Breeks aver held as much money of his own. He declined the remittance, saying that be would not sell his blood ; but at the same time reprobated the idea of being an informer, which he said was clam, i. e. base or mean. With much urgency he

accepted a pound of snuff for the use of some old woman,—aunt, grandmother, or the like,—with whom he lived. We did not become friends, for the bickers were more agreeable to both parties than any more pacific amusement; but we conducted them ever after under mutual assurances of the highest consideration for each other.

"Such was the hero whom Mr. Thomas Scott proposed to carry to Canada, and involve in adventures with the natives and colonists of that country. Perhaps the youthful generosity of the lad will not seem so great in the eyes others, as to those whom it was the means of screening from severe rebhke and punishment. But it seemed to those concerned, to argue a noble ness of sentiment far beyond the pitch of most minds; and however obscurely the lad, who showed such a frame of noble spirit, may have lived or died, I cannot help being of opinion, that if fortune had placed him in circumstances calling for gallantry or generosity, the man would have fulfilled the promises

of the boy. Long afterwards, when the story was told to my father, he censured us severely for not telling the truth at the time, that he might have

attempted to be of use to the young man in entering on life. But our alarms

for the consequences of the drawn sword, and the wound inflicted with such a weapon, were far too predominant at the time for such a pitch of generosity. "Perhaps I ought not to have inserted this schoolboy tale; but, besides the strong impression made by the incident at the time, the . whole accompani

ments of the story are matters to me of solemn and sad recollection. Of all the little band who were concerned in those juvenile sports or brawls, I can scarce recollect a single survivor. Some left the ranks of mimic war to die in the active service of their country. Many sought distant lands to return no more. Others, dispersed in different paths of life, my dim eyes now seek for in vain.' Of five brothers, all healthy and promising, in a degree

far beyond one whose infancy was fvisited by personal infirmity, and whose health after this period seemed long very precarious, I am, nevertheless, the only survivor. The best loved, and the best deserving to be loved, who had destined this incident to be the foundation of literary composition, died 'before his day,' in a distant and foreign land; and trifles assume an importance not their own, when connected with those who have been loved and lost." The simplicity and truth of this little story, are only excelled by its fine and feeling conclusion. Yet such—if there be any truth in the universal report of his personal friends and acquaintances—form the daily conversation of the singularly-gifted baronet; who, as his mood is grave or gay, goes on moralizing or "'layering," all unconscious that, like the princess in the fairy tale, a shower of rubies and pearls and diamonds accompanies the issue of every sentence he utters.

Our notice of this work has extended to a length which we did not contemplate when we entered on it. The engaging nature of the sub ject has led us forward, as an idle bee is led from flower to flower, until we have almost forgotten our road home again. We must now finish. The plates—we have only before us those that are intended for Waverley—are extremely good. Of the four, we prefer the title-page. The interview between Bradwardine and Waverley is good ; but the old Baron, who had a character, (Waverley and Rose are very well— they had none), is not exactly what we conceive him to have been. Davie Gellatly, on the contrary, is excellent both in expression and drawing; and the dogs (they are EDWIN LANDSEER'S) are of course superb. With fine propriety, they are represented regarding the "innocent" with as much reverence as if he had been a NEWTON or a LocxE ; for man, even in his most degraded state, still maintains a proud superiority over the lower creation, and the animal of the most reason-like instinct falls infinitely short even of the human idiot.—The paper and the typography of this work are admirable in texture and in clearness. We should imagine that it will prove to the spirited publishers a profitable speculation ; for we can hardly suppose that any man in England, who can by any exertion scrape together two shillings a week, will neglect to provide himself with a copy.