ott sympathised with his
young critic, who longed "to be a feudal chief, and to see his retainers
happy around him." But Edith Bellenden loved Morton, with that love
which, as she said, and thought, "disturbs the repose of the dead." Scott
had no choice. Besides, Dr. McCrie might have disapproved of so fortunate
an arrangement. The heroine herself does not live in the memory like Di
Vernon; she does not even live like Jenny Dennison. We remember Corporal
Raddlebanes better, the stoutest fighting man of Major Bellenden's
acquaintance; and the lady of Tillietudlem has admirers more numerous and
more constant. The lovers of the tale chiefly engage our interest by the
rare constancy of their affections.

The most disputed character is, of course, that of Claverhouse. There is
no doubt that, if Claverhouse had been a man of the ordinary mould, he
would never have reckoned so many enthusiastic friends in future ages.
But Beauty, which makes Helen immortal, had put its seal on Bonny Dundee.
With that face "which limners might have loved to paint, and ladies to
look upon," he still conquers hearts from his dark corner above the
private staircase in Sir Walter's deserted study. He was brave, he was
loyal when all the world forsook his master; in that reckless age of
revelry he looks on with the austere and noble contempt which he wears in
Hell among the tippling shades of Cavaliers. He died in the arms of
victory, but he lives among

The chiefs of ancient names
Who swore to fight and die beneath the banner of King James,
And he fell in Killiecrankie Pass, the glory of the Grahames.

Sentiment in romance, not in history, may be excused for pardoning the
rest.

Critics of the time, as Lady Louisa Stuart reminds Sir Walter, did not
believe the book was his, because it lacked his "tedious descriptions."
The descriptions, as of the waterfall where Burley had his den, are
indeed far from "tedious." There is a tendency in Scott to exalt into
mountains "his own grey hills," the _bosses verdatres_ as Prosper Merimee
called them, of the Border. But the horrors of such linns as that down
which Hab Dab and Davie Dinn "dang the deil" are not exaggerated.

"Old Mortality" was the last novel written by Scott before the malady
which tormented his stoicism in 1817-1820. Every reader has his own
favourite, but few will place this glorious tale lower than second in the
list of his incomparable romances.

A