better reason. Neither in his graver, nor in his gayer scenes, is there
aught which can corrupt. He invests profligacy with no attractive
colours, nor lends a false and imposing greatness to atrocious villany.
We admire the courage of Macbeth, the ability of Richard, the craft and
dexterity of Iago, and the stubborn energy of Shylock,--but we never
applaud, nor wish to emulate. We see them too truly as they are. The
Author of Waverley, though he approaches nearer to the fault in question
than Shakspeare, can never be fairly said to have committed it.
Cleveland, Robertson, Rashleigh, Christian, might, by a few touches
added, and a few expunged, become very captivating villains, and produce
a brisk fermentation of mischief in many young and weak heads. But of
such false touches and suppressions of truth, the author has not been
guilty. He has not disguised their vices and their weaknesses,--he has
not endowed them with incompatible virtues; but, just favouring them
charitably, so as to take off the edge of our dislike, has exhibited
them nearly as they must necessarily have been. The same discretion is
observable in his impersonation of those equivocal characters in humble
life which he has invested with an interest hitherto unknown. Meg
Merrilies, Madge Wildfire, Ratclifte, and the Smuggler in Redgauntlet,
are characters in whom are found redeeming traits of the best feeling,
and which, therefore, interest us deeply. Yet all of them are more or
less at war with order and the institutions of society, and must fall
under its heavy ban. And, interested as we are, we are never led to deem
the censures of society unjust, or to take part with them in their war
against it.

_Style._

Beauty of style is not one of Sir Walter Scott's chief merits. His
choice of expressions is, however, better than his disposition of them.