SIR WALTER SCOTT.

(_From the first of "Living Literary Characters," in the New Monthly
Magazine._)


It would be superfluous to continue the list of his prose works: they
are numerous; but they are in all people's hands, and censure or
praise would come equally late. He has triumphed over every difficulty
of subject, place, or time--exhibited characters humble and high,
cowardly and brave, selfish and generous, vulgar and polished, and is
at home in them all. I was present one evening, when Coleridge, in a
long and eloquent harangue, accused the author of Waverley of treason
against Nature, in not drawing his characters after the fashion of
Shakspeare, but in a manner of his own. This, without being meant, was
the highest praise Scott could well receive. Perhaps the finest
compliment ever paid him, was at the time of the late coronation, I
think. The streets were crowded so densely, that he could not make his
way from Charing Cross down to Rose's, in Abingdon-street, though he
elbowed ever so stoutly. He applied for help to a sergeant of the
Scotch Greys, whose regiment lined the streets. "Countryman," said the
soldier, "I am sorry I cannot help you," and made no exertion. Scott
whispered his name--the blood rushed to the soldier's brow--he raised
his bridle-hand, and exclaimed, "Then, by G-d, sir, you shall go
down--Corporal Gordon, here--see this gentleman safely to
Abingdon-street, come what will!" It is needless to say how well the
order was obeyed.

I have related how I travelled to Edinburgh to see Scott, and how
curiously my wishes were fulfilled; years rolled on, and when he came