Sir Walter Scott to Miss Joanna Baillie-The Passion of Fear.

to lift a bundle or to speak to some person who seemed to be lying in the ditch. Immediately after he came cowering back up the opposite side of the hedge, as returning toward me under cover of it. I saw no weapons he had except a stick but as I moved on to gain the stile which was to let me into the free field—with the idea of a wretch springing upon me from the covert at every step I took-I assure you I would not wish the worst enemy I ever had to undergo such a feeling as I had for about five minutes; my fancy made him of that description which usually combines murder with plunder, and though I was well armed with a stout stick and a very formidable knife, which, when open, becomes a sort of skenedhu or dagger, I confess my sensations, though those of a man much resolved not to die like a sheep, were vilely short of heroism; so much so, that when I jumped over the stile, a sliver of the wood run a third of an inch between my nail and flesh, without my feeling the pain or being sensible such a thing had happened. However, I saw my man no more, and it is astonishing how my spirits rose when I got into the open field; and when I reached the top of the little mount, and all the bells in London (for aught I know) began to jingle at once, I thought I had never heard any thing so delightful in my life-so rapid are the alternations of our feelings. This foolish story, for perhaps I had no rational grounds for the horrible feeling which possessed my mind for a little while, came irresistibly to my pen when writing to you on this subject of terror.

Poor Graham, gentle and amiable, and enthusiastic, deserves all you can say of him. His was really a hallowed harp, as he was himself an Israelite without guile. How often have I teased him, but never out of his good humor, by praising Dundee

Sir Walter Scott to Robert Southey-The Laureateship.

and laughing at the Covenanters! but I beg your pardon, you are a Westland Whig too, and will perhaps make less allowance for a descendant of the persecutors. I think his works should be collected and published for the benefit of his family. Surely the wife and orphans of such a man have a claim on the generosity of the public.

Pray make my remembrance to the lady who so kindly remembers our early intimacy. I do perfectly remember being an exceedingly spoiled, chattering monkey, whom indifferent health and the cares of a kind Grandmamma and Aunt had made, I suspect, extremely abominable to everybody who had not a great deal of sympathy and good nature, which I dare say was the case of my quondam bedfellow, since she recollects me so favorably. Farewell, and believe me faithfully and respectfully

Your sincere friend,

WALTER SCOTT.

XXVII.-THE LAUREATESHIP.*

Sir Walter Scott to Robert Southey.

EDINBURGH, Nov. 13th, 1813.

I do not delay, my dear Southey, to say my gratulor. Long may you live, as Paddy says, to rule over us, and to redeem the crown of Spenser and of Dryden to its pristine dignity. I am only discontented with the extent of your royal revenue, which I thought had been £400, or £300 at the very least. Is there no

* The Leaureateship, although associated with the glorious names of Ben Jonson and Dryden, had been, prior to this period, degraded in popular estimation by being conferred upon unworthy incumbents. Southey, Wordsworth, and Tennyson have revived the pristine lustre of the office. It is now understood that the Laureate may write only when and what he pleases.—H.

Sir Walter Scott to Robert Southey-The Laureateship.

getting rid of that ridiculous modus, and requiring the butt in kind? I would have you think of it: I know no man so well entitled to Xeres sack as yourself, though many bards would make a better figure at drinking it. I should think that in due time a memorial might get some relief in this part of the appointment-it should be at least £100 wet and £100 dry. When you have carried your point of discarding the ode, and my point of getting the sack, you will be exactly in the situation of Davy in the farce, who stipulates for more wages, less work, and the key of the ale-cellar. I was greatly delighted with the circumstances of your investiture. It reminded me of the porters at Calais with Dr. Smollett's baggage, six of them seizing one small portmanteau and bearing it in triumph to his lodgings. You see what it is to laugh at the superstitions of a gentleman usher, as I think you do somewhere. "The whirligig of time brings about his revenge."

I

Adieu, my dear Southey; my best wishes attend all that you do, and my best congratulations every good that attends youyea, even this, the very least of Providence's mercies, as a poor clergyman said when pronouncing grace over a herring. should like to know how the Prince received you; his address is said to be excellent, and his knowledge of literature far from despicable. What a change of fortune ever since the short time when we met! The great work of retribution is now rolling onward to consummation, yet am I not fully satisfied-pereat iste-there will be no permanent peace in Europe till Buonaparte sleeps with the tyrants of old. My best compliments attend Mrs. Southey and your family. Ever yours,

WALTER SCOTT.

William Roscoe to Miss Berry-Madame du Deffand's Letters.

XXVIII.-MADAME DU DEFFAND'S LETTERS.

William Roscoe to Miss Berry.

ALLERTON, Dec. 30th, 1810.

DEAR MADAM: It was not possible that your obliging note of the 26th could have arrived at a more welcome moment; in fact, I may almost be said to have passed the last ten or twelve days in your society, for having been confined to the house by indisposition, my chief pleasure has been the perusal of Madam du Deffand's letters, with the notes, together with Lord Orford's correspondence, which, of all the books in our language, is the best calculated for the study of a convalescent, and I really believe is better than most of the physic in the pharmacopœia. On the table before me lay the beginning of a letter, intended to thank you for the four elegant volumes which I some time since received, although I have scarcely, till this interval of leisure, had time to look into them. These letters seem to me to be curious and interesting, but they open the way to other reflections than the author himself was ever aware of. What these are I need not inform you. The judicious and excellent notes which accompany them show that you have considered them in their proper light, and that you are as well aware as I am, that the horrible depravity, selfishness, insincerity, and licentiousness, which, under the example of the French monarchs, had infected all the higher ranks of society, and impoverished and enslaved the nation at large, could have no other result than that which has actually taken place.

As to Madame du Deffand herself, I have some doubts whether we shall so nearly agree. She is a true Frenchwoman, with great penetration and shrewdness, but little discretion; great pre

William Roscoe to Miss Berry-Madame du Deffand's Letters.

tence to sentiment, but wholly without a heart; witness her conduct with respect to Voltaire, whom she professed to esteem and admire above all her other friends, but whose death she has noticed with the utmost indifference, and whose yet warm ashes she insulted with a wretched witticism.

Madame du Deffand was sick in mind all her life, and could never discover the cause. Mr. Walpole, her true friend, seems from time to time to have given her some good advice, which she had the philosophy to take in good part, as a patient receives a bottle of physic, the contents of which he resolves never to swallow. This disease was vanity; her opiate admiration; and as this, like other opiates, requires an increased dose, she became miserable when she could not obtain it. How happy it would have been for her if, instead of depending on the opinion of others, she had relied on herself; chastised her mind; improved her understanding-naturally so capable of it; viewed the present and the future, not through the glass of fashion, but with the eye of reason; and whilst she enjoyed the calm and temperate pleasures which even her situation afforded, have looked forward with hope and confidence to a better state. But retirement was not fashionable; good sense was not fashionable; sincerity was not fashionable; religion was not fashionable, and morality still less so; in short, it was the fashion to turn every thing that is truly estimable in public and private life into ridicule; and Madame du Deffand had the assurance to sing in the presence of the King of Sweden her Chanson des Philosophes, little thinking that such outrages on decency were only the dreadful notes of preparation for those horrible calamities which were so shortly to ensue.

It would, however, be unjust to Madame du D. not to ac