on a voluminous correspondence with Scott and the rest of that brilliant school.  Who ever thinks of George Ellis?  But Ellis was the most learned of antiquaries, and devoid of the pedantry which so often makes antiquarian discourses repellent.  His polished expositions have the charm that comes from a gentle soul and an exquisite intellect, while his criticism is so luminous and just that even Mr. Ruskin could hardly improve upon it.  Then there were Mr. Skene, Joanna Baillie—­alas, poor forgotten Joanna!—­Erskine, the Shepherd, the Duke of Buccleuch, Wilson, and so many more that we grow amazed to think that even Scott was able to rear his head above them.  All the school were alike in their love and enthusiasm for literature; and really they seemed to have had a better mode of living and thinking than have the smart gentlemen who think that earnest and conscientious study is only a heavy species of frivolity.  And let it be marked that this wide-spread company of private citizens and public writers by no means formed a mutual admiration society, for they criticised each other sharply and wisely; and the criticism was taken in good part by all concerned.  When Ellis wrote a sort of treatise to Scott in epistolary form, and complained of the poet’s monotonous use of the eight-syllable line, Scott replied with equanimity, and took as much pains to convince his friend as though he were discussing a thesis for some valuable prize.  On one occasion a few of the really great men found themselves in the midst of a society where the practice of mutual admiration was beginning to creep in.  The way in which two of the most eminent guests snubbed the mutual admirers was at once delightful and effective.  One gentleman had been extravagantly extolling Coleridge, until many present felt a little uncomfortable.  Scott said, “Well, I have lately read in a provincial paper some verses which I think better than most of their sort.”  He then recited the lines “Fire, Famine, and Slaughter” which are now so famous.  The eulogist of Coleridge refused to allow the verses any merit.  To Scott he addressed a series of questions—­“Surely you must own that this is bad?” “Surely you cannot call this anything but poor?” At length Coleridge quietly broke in, “For Heaven’s sake, leave Mr. Scott alone!  I wrote the poem.”  This cruel blow put an end to mutual admiration in that quarter for some time.

Byron, Southey, Wordsworth, Jeffrey—­all in their several fashions—­regarded literature as a serious pursuit, and they were followed by the “illustrious obscure” ones whose names are now sunk in the night.  How the whirligig of time sweeps us through change after change!  Any of us can buy for shillings books which would have cost our predecessors pounds; we can have access to all the wit, poetry, and learning of our generation at a cost of three guineas a year.  For little more than a shilling per week any reader who lives far away in the country can have relays of books sent