s happily answered, we should have thought less of
him for his egotism, and had much less perfect knowledge of the real
man's heart and soul. Homer simply tells us, that he walked away, with
great strides, greatly rejoicing. I can remember, at this moment, but
one tale in which this style of descriptive searchings into the feelings
is altogether justifiable--Godwin's "_Caleb Williams_;" for there the
ever instant terror, varying by the natural activity and ingenuity of
the mind, which, upon the one pressing point, feverishly hurries into
new, and all possible channels of thought, requires this pervading
absolutism. It is the Erynnis of a bygone creed, in a renovated form of
persecuting fatalism, brought to sport with the daily incidents and
characters of modern life.

I do not wish to be tempted by this course of thought into lengthened
criticism; which I should not have touched upon, had I not thought it
proper to tell you that I have added a conclusion to your tale. Ever
wishing a continuation of the happiness of two human beings, beyond that
location in the story, where most spiteful authors leave them, the
Church door.

* * * * *

I have been reading, too, over again two of Sir Walter Scott's novels,
"Guy Mannering" and "Ivanhoe." How different they are, both in design
and execution! The former, in all respects perfect--the latter, in
design common-place, and but little enlarged from the old ballad tales
of Robin Hood, and histories of the Crusaders; very slovenly in diction,
and lengthened out by tiresome repetitions; the same things being told
in protracted dialogues which had been previously narrated in the
historic course. Then there are very ill-timed interruptions, and
wearisome disquisitions, just where they should not be. Yet are there
passages of perfect excellence, that prove the master-hand of the
author. The novel of "Ivanhoe" seems to resemble some of those plays
which, though doubtful, are called Shakspeare's, because it is evident
that the master-hand has passed over them, and left touches both of
thought and character which justify the position which they enjoy.
Rebecca is all in all. The other characters somewhat fail to interest.
Ivanhoe himself says but little, and is in fact not much developed. We
are disgusted, and unnecessarily, at every turn with Athelstane--there
was no occasion for making him this degraded glutton. It seems a clumsy
contrivance to break off