portrait of one of Murat's light-cavalrymen, or of a Grenadier of
the Old Guard, drawn with the same bold strokes as the Rittmeister
of Gustavus or the archers of the French King's Guard in "Quentin
Durward"?

In his visit to Paris Scott must have seen many of those iron men
who during the preceding twenty years had been the scourge and also
the redemption of Europe. To us the soldiers who scowled at him from
the sidewalks in 1814 would have been as interesting and as much
romantic figures of the past as the mail-clad knights or ruffling
cavaliers of his novels. A picture from the life of a Peninsular
veteran, with his views upon the Duke, would be as striking as
Dugald Dalgetty from the German wars. But then no man ever does
realize the true interest of the age in which he happens to live.
All sense of proportion is lost, and the little thing hard-by
obscures the great thing at a distance. It is easy in the dark to
confuse the fire-fly and the star. Fancy, for example, the Old
Masters seeking their subjects in inn parlours, or St. Sebastians,
while Columbus was discovering America before their very faces.

I have said that I think "Ivanhoe" the best of Scott's novels. I
suppose most people would subscribe to that. But how about the
second best? It speaks well for their general average that there is
hardly one among them which might not find some admirers who would
vote it to a place of honour. To the Scottish-born man those novels
which deal with Scottish life and character have a quality of
raciness which gives them a place apart. There is a rich humour of
the soil in such books as "Old Mortality," "The Antiquary," and "Rob
Roy," which puts them in a different class from the others. His old
Scottish women are, next to his soldiers, the best series of types