d recommend to Mr.
Waithman's perusal (if Mr. Lamb has not anticipated us) the _Rosamond
Gray_ and the _John Woodvil_ of the same author, as an agreeable relief to
the noise of a City feast, and the heat of city elections. A friend, a
short time ago, quoted some lines[137] from the last-mentioned of these
works, which meeting Mr. Godwin's eye, he was so struck with the beauty of
the passage, and with a consciousness of having seen it before, that he
was uneasy till he could recollect where, and after hunting in vain for it
in Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and other not unlikely places, sent
to Mr. Lamb to know if he could help him to the author!

XIV

SIR WALTER SCOTT

Sir Walter has found out (oh, rare discovery!) that facts are better than
fiction; that there is no romance like the romance of real life; and that
if we can but arrive at what men feel, do, and say in striking and
singular situations, the result will be "more lively, audible, and full of
vent," than the fine-spun cobwebs of the brain. With reverence be it
spoken, he is like the man who having to imitate the squeaking of a pig
upon the stage, brought the animal under his coat with him. Our author has
conjured up the actual people he has to deal with, or as much as he could
get of them, in "their habits as they lived." He has ransacked old
chronicles, and poured the contents upon his page; he has squeezed out
musty records; he has consulted wayfaring pilgrims, bed-rid sybils; he has
invoked the spirits of the air; he has conversed with the living and the
dead, and let them tell their story their own way; and by borrowing of
others, has enriched his own genius with everlasting variety, truth, and
freedom. He has taken his materials from the original, authentic sources,
in large concrete masses, and not tampered with or too much frittered them
away. He is only the amanuensis of truth and history. It is impossible to
say how fine his writings in consequence are, unless we could describe how
fine nature is. All that portion of the history of his country that he has
touched upon (wide as the scope is) the manners, the personages, the
events, the scenery, lives over again in his volumes. Nothing is
wanting--the illusion is complete. There is a hurtling in the air, a
trampling of feet upon the ground, as these perfect representations of
human character or fanciful belief come thronging back upon our
imaginations. We will merely recall a few of the