, the brilliant, the inexhaustible Dumas. Scott's generation had
no scruples abort "realism," listened to no sermons on the glory of the
commonplace; like Dr. Johnson, they admired a book which "was amusing as
a fairy-tale." But we are overwhelmed with a wealth of comparisons, and
deafened by a multitude of homilies on fiction, and distracted, like the
people in the Erybyggja Saga, by the strange rising and setting, and the
wild orbits of new "weirdmoons" of romance. Before we can make up our
minds on Scott, we have to remember, or forget, the scornful patronage of
one critic, the over-subtlety and exaggerations of another, the more than
papal infallibility of a third. Perhaps the best critic would be an
intelligent school-boy, with a generous heart and an unspoiled
imagination. As his remarks are not accessible, as we must try to judge
"Waverley" like readers inured to much fiction and much criticism, we
must confess, no doubt, that the commencement has the faults which the
first reviewers detected, and it which Scott acknowledged. He is
decidedly slow in getting to business, as they say; he began with more of
conscious ethical purpose than he went on, and his banter is poor. But
when once we enter the village of Tully-Veolan, the Magician finds his
wand. Each picture of place or person tells,--the old butler, the daft
Davie Gellatley, the solemn and chivalrous Baron, the pretty natural
girl, the various lairds, the factor Macwheeble,--all at once become
living people, and friends whom we can never lose. The creative fire of
Shakspeare lives again. The Highlanders--Evan Dhu, Donald Bean Lean, his
charming daughter, Callum Beg, and all the rest--are as natural as the
Lowlanders. In Fergus and Flora we feel, indeed, at first, that the
author has left his experience behind, and is giving us creatures of
fancy. But they too become human and natural,--Fergus in his moods of
anger, ambition, and final courageous resignation; Flora, in her grief.
As for Waverley, his creator was no doubt too hard on him. Among the
brave we hear that he was one of the bravest, though Scott always wrote
his battlepieces in a manner to suggest no discomfort, and does not give
us particular details of Waverley's prowess. He has spirit enough, this
"sneaking piece of imbecility," as he shows in his quarrel with Fergus,
on the march to Derby. Waverley, that creature of romance, considered as
a lover, is really not romantic enough. He loved Rose becaus