so far as life can be criticised in action, are alien to the Muse of
narrative. Stories and pictures are all she offers: Scott's
pictures, certainly, are fresh enough, his tales are excellent
enough, his manner is sufficiently direct. To take examples: every
one who wants to read Scott's poetry should begin with the "Lay."
From opening to close it never falters:-


"Nine and twenty knights of fame
Hung their shields in Branksome Hall;
Nine and twenty squires of name
Brought their steeds to bower from stall,
Nine and twenty yeomen tall
Waited, duteous, on them all . . .
Ten of them were sheathed in steel,
With belted sword, and spur on heel;
They quitted not their harness bright
Neither by day nor yet by night:
They lay down to rest
With corslet laced,
Pillowed on buckler cold and hard;
They carved at the meal
With gloves of steel,
And they drank the red wine through the helmet barred."


Now, is not that a brave beginning? Does not the verse clank and
chime like sword sheath on spur, like the bits of champing horses?
Then, when William of Deloraine is sent on his lonely midnight ride
across the haunted moors and wolds, does the verse not gallop like