charming and wholesome relief to the fastidious refinement and “over-laboured lassitude” of modern readers, like the effect of plunging a nervous valetudinarian into a cold-bath.  The Scotch Novels, for this reason, are not so much admired in Scotland as in England.  The contrast, the transition is less striking.  From the top of the Calton-Hill, the inhabitants of “Auld Reekie” can descry, or fancy they descry the peaks of Ben Lomond and the waving outline of Rob Roy’s country:  we who live at the southern extremity of the island can only catch a glimpse of the billowy scene in the descriptions of the Author of Waverley.  The mountain air is most bracing to our languid nerves, and it is brought us in ship-loads from the neighbourhood of Abbot’s-Ford.  There is another circumstance to be taken into the account.  In Edinburgh there is a little opposition and something of the spirit of cabal between the partisans of works proceeding from Mr. Constable’s and Mr. Blackwood’s shops.  Mr. Constable gives the highest prices; but being the Whig bookseller, it is grudged that he should do so.  An attempt is therefore made to transfer a certain share of popularity to the second-rate Scotch novels, “the embryo fry, the little airy of ricketty children,” issuing through Mr. Blackwood’s shop-door.  This operates a diversion, which does not affect us here.  The Author of Waverley wears the palm of legendary lore alone.  Sir Walter may, indeed, surfeit us:  his imitators make us sick!  It may be asked, it has been asked, “Have we no materials for romance in England?  Must we look to Scotland for a supply of whatever is original and striking in this kind?” And we answer—­“Yes!” Every foot of soil is with us worked up:  nearly every movement of the social machine is calculable.  We have no room left for violent catastrophes; for grotesque quaintnesses; for wizard spells.  The last skirts of ignorance and barbarism are seen hovering (in Sir Walter’s pages) over the Border.  We have, it is true, gipsies in this country as well as at the Cairn of Derncleugh:  but they live under clipped hedges, and repose in camp-beds, and do not perch on crags, like eagles, or take shelter, like sea-mews, in basaltic subterranean caverns.  We have heaths with rude heaps of stones upon them:  but no existing superstition converts them into the Geese of Micklestane-Moor, or sees a Black Dwarf groping among them.  We have sects in religion:  but the only thing sublime or ridiculous in that way is Mr. Irving, the Caledonian preacher, who “comes like a satyr staring from the woods, and yet speaks like an orator!” We had a Parson Adams not quite a hundred years ago—­a Sir Roger de Coverley rather more than a hundred!  Even Sir Walter is ordinarily obliged to pitch his angle (strong as the hook is) a hundred miles to the North of the “Modern Athens” or a century back.  His last work,[A] indeed, is mystical, is romantic in nothing but the title-page.  Instead of “a holy-water sprinkle dipped in dew,” he has given us a fashionable watering-place—­and we see what he has made of it.  He must not come down from his fastnesses in traditional barbarism and native rusticity:  the level, the littleness, the frippery of modern civilization will undo him as it has undone us!