tt's good novels make up for his bad verse, or that
verse and prose, all must go? _Pro captu lectoris_, by the reader's
taste, they stand or fall; yet even pessimism can scarcely believe that
the Waverley Novels are mortal. They were once the joy of every class of
minds; they cannot cease to be the joy of those who cling to the
permanently good, and can understand and forgive lapses, carelessnesses,
and the leisurely literary fashion of a former age. But, as to the
poems, many give them up who cling to the novels. It does not follow
that the poems are bad. In the first place, they are of two kinds--lyric
and narrative. Now, the fashion of narrative in poetry has passed away
for the present. The true Greek epics are read by a few in Greek; by
perhaps fewer still in translations. But so determined are we not to
read tales in verse, that prose renderings, even of the epics, nay, even
of the Attic dramas, have come more or less into vogue. This accounts
for the comparative neglect of Sir Walter's lays. They are spoken of as
Waverley Novels spoiled. This must always be the opinion of readers who
will not submit to stories in verse; it by no means follows that the
verse is bad. If we make an exception, which we must, in favour of
Chaucer, where is there better verse in story telling in the whole of
English literature? The readers who despise "Marmion," or "The Lady of
the Lake," do so because they dislike stories told in poetry. From
poetry they expect other things, especially a lingering charm and magic
of style, a reflective turn, "criticism of life." These things, except
so far as life can be criticised in action, are alien to the Muse of
narrative. Stories and pictures are all she offers: Scott's pictures,
certainly, are fresh enough, his tales are excellent enough, his manner
is sufficiently direct. To take examples: every one who wants to read
Scott's poetry should begin with the "Lay." From opening to close it
never falters:--

"Nine and twenty knights of fame
Hung their shields in Branksome Hall;
Nine and twenty squires of name
Brought their steeds to bower from stall,
Nine and twenty yeomen tall
Waited, duteous, on them all . . .
Ten of them were sheathed in steel,
With belted sword, and spur on heel;
They quitted not their harness bright
Neither by day nor yet by night:
They lay down to rest
With corslet laced,
Pillowed on buckler cold and har