dden demise of all the young Baldistones is a
high-handed measure. He knew that, in real life, Frank and Di Vernon
would never have met again after that farewell on the moonlit road. But
he yielded to Miss Buskbody's demand for "a glimpse of sunshine in the
last chapter;" he understood the human liking for the final lump of
sugar. After all, fiction is not, any more than any other art, a mere
imitation of life: it is an arrangement, a selection. Scott was too kind,
too humane, to disappoint us, the crowd of human beings who find much of
our happiness in dreams. He could not keep up his own interest in his
characters after he had developed them; he could take pleasure in giving
them life,--he had little pleasure in ushering them into an earthly
paradise; so that part of his business he did carelessly, as his only
rivals in literature have also done it.

The critics censured, not unjustly, the "machinery" of the story,--these
mysterious "assets" of Osbaldistone and Tresham, whose absence was to
precipitate the Rising of 1715. The "Edinburgh Review" lost its heart
(Jeffrey's heart was always being lost) to Di Vernon. But it pronounces
that "a king with legs of marble, or a youth with an ivory shoulder,"
heroes of the "Arabian Nights" and of Pindar, was probable, compared with
the wit and accomplishments of Diana. This is hypercriticism. Diana's
education, under Rashleigh, had been elaborate; her acquaintance with
Shakspeare, her main strength, is unusual in women, but not beyond the
limits of belief. Here she is in agreeable contrast to Rose Bradwardine,
who had never heard of "Romeo and Juliet." In any case, Diana compels
belief as well as wins affection, while we are fortunate enough to be in
her delightful company.

As long as we believe in her, it is not of moment to consider whether her
charms are incompatible with probability.

"Rob Roy" was finished in spite of "a very bad touch of the cramp for
about three weeks in November, which, with its natural attendants of
dulness and, weakness, made me unable to get our matters forward till
last week," says Scott to Constable. "But," adds the unconquerable
author, "I am resting myself here a few days before commencing my new
labours, which will be untrodden ground, and, I think, pretty likely to
succeed." The "new labours" were "The Heart of Mid-Lothian."

ANDREW LANG.

ROB ROY

CHAPTER FIRST.

How have I sinn'd, that this affliction