ns in the original: "a damsel, who, close behind a fine spring
about half-way down the descent and which had once supplied the castle
with water, was engaged in bleaching linen." A man who gave in such copy
would be discharged from the staff of a daily paper. Scott has forgotten
to prepare the reader for the presence of the "damsel"; he has forgotten
to mention the spring and its relation to the ruin; and now, face to
face with his omission, instead of trying back and starting fair, crams
all this matter, tail foremost, into a single shambling sentence. It is
not merely bad English, or bad style; it is abominably bad narrative
besides.

Certainly the contrast is remarkable; and it is one that throws a strong
light upon the subject of this paper. For here we have a man of the
finest creative instinct touching with perfect certainty and charm the
romantic junctures of his story: and we find him utterly careless,
almost, it would seem, incapable, in the technical matter of style, and
not only frequently weak, but frequently wrong in points of drama. In
character parts, indeed, and particularly in the Scots, he was delicate,
strong, and truthful; but the trite, obliterated features of too many of
his heroes have already wearied three generations of readers. At times
his characters will speak with something far beyond propriety--with a
true heroic note; but on the next page they will be wading wearily
forward with an ungrammatical and undramatic rigmarole of words. The man
who could conceive and write the character of Elspeth of the
Craigburnfoot, as Scott has conceived and written it, had not only
splendid romantic but splendid tragic gifts. How comes it, then, that he
could so often fob us off with languid, inarticulate twaddle? It seems
to me that the explanation is to be found in the very quality of his
surprising merits. As his books are play to the reader, so were they
play to him. He was a great day-dreamer, a seer of fit and beautiful and
humorous visions, but hardly a great artist. He conjured up the romantic
with delight, but had hardly patience to describe it. Of the pleasures
of his art he tasted fully; but of its cares and scruples and distresses
never man knew less.

FOOTNOTES:

[16] Since traced by many obliging correspondents to the gallery of
Charles Kingsley.

[17] Since the above was written I have tried to launch the boat
with my own hands in "Kidnapped." Some day, perhaps, I may try a