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of the celebrated writers that adorned the decline of the last century, and shed a lustre over France, too soon eclipsed in blood at its sanguinary close. I have conversed with Buffon and with Fontenelle, and held intercourse with Nature's simplest child, Bernardin de St. Pierre, author of 'Paul and Virginia;' Gresset and Marmontel were my college-friends; and to me, though a frequenter of the halls of Sorbonne, the octogenaire of Ferney was not unknown: nor was I unacquainted with the recluse of Ermenonville. But what are the souvenirs of a single period, however brilliant and interesting, to the recollections of full seven centuries of historic glory, all condensed and concentrated in Scott? What a host of personages does his name conjure up! what mighty shades mingle in the throng of attendant heroes that wait his bidding, and form his appropriate retinue! Cromwell, Claverhouse, and Montrose; Saladin, Front de Bœuf, and Cœur de Lion; Rob Roy, Robin Hood, and Marmion; those who fell at Culloden and FloddenField, and those who won the day at Bannockburn,―all start up at the presence of the Enchanter. I speak not of his female forms of surpassing loveliness-his Flora M'Ivor, his Rebecca, his Amy Robsart: these you, Frank, can best admire. But I know not how I shall divest myself of a secret awe when the wizard, with all his spells, shall rise before me. The presence of my old foster-brother, George Knapp, will doubtless tend to dissipate the illusion; but if so it will be by personifying the Baillie Nicol Jarvie of Glasgow, his worthy prototype. Nor are Scott's merits those simply of a pleasing novelist or a spirit-stirring poet; his Life of Dryden,' his valuable commentaries on Swift, his researches in the dark domain of demonology, his biography of Napoleon, and the sterling views of European policy developed in 'Paul's Letters to his Kinsfolk, all contribute to enhance his literary pre-eminence. Rightly has Silius Italicus depicted the Carthaginian hero, surrounded even in solitude by a thousand recollections of wellearned renown—

'Nec credis inermem

Quem mihi tot cinxere duces: si admoveris ora,
Cannas et Trebiam ante oculos, Romanaque busta,
Et Pauli stare ingentem miraberis umbram!"

Yet, greatly and deservedly as he is prized by his contemporaries, future ages will value him even more; and his laurel, ever extending its branches, and growing in secret_like the fame of Marcellus,' will overshadow the earth. Posterity will canonise his every relic; and his footsteps, even in this remote district, will be one day traced and sought for by the admirers of genius. For, notwithstanding the breadth and brilliancy of effect with which he waved the torch of mind while living, far purer and more serene will be the lamp that shall glimmer in his tomb and keep vigil over his hallowed ashes: to that fount of inspiration other and minor spirits, eager to career through the same orbit of glory, will recur, and

In their golden urns draw light.'

Nor do I merely look on him as a writer who, by the blandishment of his narrative and the witchery of his style, has calmed more sorrow, and caused more happy hours to flow, than any save a higher and a holier page, a writer who, like the autumnal meteor of his own North, has illumined the dull horizon of these latter days with a fancy ever varied and radiant with joyfulness,-one who, for useful purposes, has interwoven the plain warp of history with the manycoloured web of his own romantic loom ;-but further do I hail in him the genius who has rendered good and true service to the cause of mankind, by driving forth from the temple of Religion, with sarcasm's knotted lash, that canting puritanic tribe who would obliterate from the book of life every earthly enjoyment, and change all its paths of peace into walks of bitterness. I honour him for his efforts to demolish the pestilent influence of a sour and sulky system. that would interpose itself between the gospel sun and the world—that retains no heat, imbibes no light, and transmits none; but flings its broad, cold, and disastrous shadow over the land that is cursed with its visitation.

"The excrescences and superfotations of my own church most freely do I yield up to his censure; for while in his Abbot Boniface, his Friar Tuck, and his intriguing Rashleigh, he has justly stigmatised monastic laziness, and denounced ultramontane duplicity, he has not forgotten to exhibit the bright reverse of the Roman medal, but has done full measure of justice to the nobler inspirations of our

creed, bodied forth in Mary Stuart, Hugo de Lacy, Catherine Seaton, Die Vernon, and Rose de Béranger. Nay, even in his fictions of cloistered life, among the drones of that ignoble crowd, he has drawn minds of another sphere, and spirits whose ingenuous nature and piety unfeigned were not worthy of this world's deceitful intercourse, but fitted them to commune in solitude with Heaven.

Such are the impressions, and such the mood of mind in which I shall accost the illustrious visitor; and you, Frank, shall accompany me on this occasion."

Accordingly, the next morning found Prout, punctual to Knapp's summons, at his appointed post on the top of the castle, keeping a keen look-out for the arrival of Sir Walter. He came, at length, up the "laurel avenue," so called from the gigantic laurels that overhang the path,

"Which bowed,

As if each brought a new classic wreath to his head;"

and alighting at the castle-gate, supported by Knapp, he toiled up the winding stairs as well as his lameness would permit, and stood at last, with all his fame around him, in the presence of Prout. The form of mutual introduction was managed by Knapp with his usual tact and urbanity; and the first interchange of thoughts soon convinced Scott that he had lit on no clod of the valley" in the priest. The confabulation which ensued may remind you of the "Tusculanæ Quæstiones" of Tully, or the dialogues "De Oratore," or of Horne Tooke's "Diversions of Purley," or of all three together. La voici.

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SCOTT.

I congratulate myself, reverend father, on the prospect of having so experienced a guide in exploring the wonders of this celebrated spot. Indeed, I am so far a member of your communion, that I take delight in pilgrimages; and you behold in me a pilgrim to the Blarney stone.

PROUT.

I accept the guidance of so sincere a devotee; nor has a more accomplished palmer ever worn scrip, or staff, or scollop-shell, in my recollection; nay, more-right honoured shall the pastor of the neighbouring upland feel in affording

shelter and hospitality, such as every pi.grim has claim to, if the penitent will deign visit my humble dwelling.

SCOTT.

My vow forbids! I must not think of bodily refreshment, or any such profane solicitudes, until I go through the solemn rounds of my devotional career—until I kiss "the stone," and explore the "cave where no daylight enters," the "fracture in the battlement," the "lake well stored with fishes," and, finally, "the sweet rock-close."

PROUT.

All these shall you duly contemplate when you shall have rested from the fatigue of climbing to this lofty eminence, whence, seated on these battlements, you can command a landscape fit to repay the toil of the most laborious peregrination; in truth, if the ancient observance were not sufficiently vindicated by your example to-day, I should have thought it my duty to take up the gauntlet for that much-abused set of men, the pilgrims of olden time.

SCOTT.

In all cases of initiation to any solemn rites, such as I am about to enter on, it is customary to give an introductory lecture to the neophyte; and as you seem disposed to enlighten us with a preamble, you have got, reverend father, in me a most docile auditor.

PROUT.

There is a work, Sir Walter, with which I presume you are not unacquainted, which forcibly and beautifully portrays the honest fervour of our forefathers in their untutored views of Christianity: but if the "Tales of the Crusaders" count among their dramatis persona the mitred prelate, the cowled hermit, the croziered abbot, and the gallant templar, strange mixture of daring and devotion,far do I prefer the sketch of that peculiar creation of Catholicity and romance, the penitent under solemn vow, who comes down from Thabor or from Lebanon to embark for Europe: and who in rude garb and with unshodden feet will return to his native plains of Languedoc or Lombardy,

displaying with pride the emblem of Palestine, and realising what Virgil only dreamt of

"Primus Idumæas referam tibi, Mantua, palmas!"

But I am wrong in saying that pilgrimages belong exclusively to our most ancient form of Christianity, or that the patent for this practice appertains to religion at all. It is the simplest dictate of our nature, though piety has consecrated the practice, and marked it for her own. Patriotism, poetry, philanthropy, all the arts, and all the finer feelings, have their pilgrimages, their hallowed spots of intense interest, their haunts of fancy and of inspiration. It is the first impulse of every genuine affection, the tendency of the heart in its fervent youthhood; and nothing but the cold scepticism of an age which Edmund Burke so truly designated as that of calculators and economists, could scoff at the enthusiasm that feeds on ruins such as these, that visits with emotion the battle-field and the ivied abbey, or Shakespeare's grave, or Galileo's cell, or Runnymede, or Marathon.

Filial affection has had its pilgrim in Telemachus; generous and devoted loyalty in Blondel, the best of troubadours; Bruce, Belzoni, and Humboldt, were pilgrims of science; and John Howard was the sublime pilgrim of philanthropy.

Actuated by a sacred feeling, the son of Ulysses visited every isle and inhospitable shore of the boisterous Egean, until a father clasped him in his arms;-propelled by an equally absorbing attachment, the faithful minstrel of Cœur de Lion sang before every feudal castle in Germany, until at last a dungeon-keep gave back the responsive echo of "O Richard! O mon roy!" If Belzoni died toilworn and dissatisfied-if Baron Humboldt is still plodding his course through the South American peninsula, or wafted on the bosom of the Pacific-it is because the domain of science is infinite, and her votaries must never rest:

"For there are wanderers o'er eternity,

Whose bark goes on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be!"

But when Howard explored the secrets of every prisonhouse in Europe, performing that which Burke classically described as "a circumnavigation of charity" nay, when,

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