oral tact,' and specially hated the genus _quack_, and, above all, that
of _acrid-quack_. 'These,' says Carlyle, 'though never so
clear-starched, bland-smiling, and beneficent, he absolutely would have
no trade with. Their very sugar-cake was unavailing. He said with
emphasis, as clearly as barking could say it, "Acrid-quack, avaunt!"'
But once when 'a tall, irregular, busy-looking man came halting by,'
that wise, nervous little dog ran towards him, and began 'fawning,
frisking, licking at the feet' of Sir Walter Scott. No reader of reviews
could have done better, says Carlyle; and, indeed, that canine
testimonial was worth having. I prefer that little anecdote even to
Lockhart's account of the pig, which had a romantic affection for the
author of 'Waverley.' Its relater at least perceived and loved that
unaffected benevolence, which invested even Scott's bodily presence with
a kind of natural aroma, perceptible, as it would appear, to very
far-away cousins. But Carlyle is on his guard, and though his sympathy
flows kindly enough, it is rather harshly intercepted by his sterner
mood. He cannot, indeed, but warm to Scott at the end. After touching on
the sad scene of Scott's closing years, at once ennobled and embittered
by that last desperate struggle to clear off the burden of debt, he
concludes with genuine feeling. 'It can be said of Scott, when he
departed he took a man's life along with him. No sounder piece of
British manhood was put together in that eighteenth century of time.
Alas, his fine Scotch face, with its shaggy honesty, sagacity, and
goodness, when we saw it latterly on the Edinburgh streets, was all worn
with care, the joy all fled from it, ploughed deep with labour and
sorrow. We shall never forget it--we shall never see it again. Adieu,
Sir Walter, pride of all Scotchmen; take our proud and sad farewell.'

If even the Waverley Novels should lose their interest, the last
journals of Scott, recently published by a judicious editor, can never
lose their interest as the record of one of the noblest struggles ever
carried on by a great man to redeem a lamentable error. It is a book to
do one good.

And now it is time to turn to the failings which, in Carlyle's opinion,
mar this pride of all Scotchmen, and make his permanent reputation
doubtful. The faults upon which he dwells are, of course, those which
are more or less acknowledged by all sound critics. Scott, says Carlyle,
had no great gospel to deliver