But at last I realized what a treasure they were.  In my boyhood I read them by surreptitious candle-ends in the dead of the night, when the sense of crime added a new zest to the story.  Perhaps you have observed that my “Ivanhoe” is of a different edition from the others.  The first copy was left in the grass by the side of a stream, fell into the water, and was eventually picked up three days later, swollen and decomposed, upon a mud-bank.  I think I may say, however, that I had worn it out before I lost it.  Indeed, it was perhaps as well that it was some years before it was replaced, for my instinct was always to read it again instead of breaking fresh ground.

I remember the late James Payn telling the anecdote that he and two literary friends agreed to write down what scene in fiction they thought the most dramatic, and that on examining the papers it was found that all three had chosen the same.  It was the moment when the unknown knight, at Ashby-de-la-Zouch, riding past the pavilions of the lesser men, strikes with the sharp end of his lance, in a challenge to mortal combat, the shield of the formidable Templar.  It was, indeed, a splendid moment!  What matter that no Templar was allowed by the rules of his Order to take part in so secular and frivolous an affair as a tournament?  It is the privilege of great masters to make things so, and it is a churlish thing to gainsay it.  Was it not Wendell Holmes who described the prosaic man, who enters a drawing-room with a couple of facts, like ill-conditioned bull-dogs at his heels, ready to let them loose on any play of fancy?  The great writer can never go wrong.  If Shakespeare gives a sea-coast to Bohemia, or if Victor Hugo calls an English prize-fighter Mr. Jim-John-Jack—­well, it was so, and that’s an end of it.  “There is no second line of rails at that point,” said an editor to a minor author.  “I make a second line,” said the author; and he was within his rights, if he can carry his readers’ conviction with him.

But this is a digression from “Ivanhoe.”  What a book it is!  The second greatest historical novel in our language, I think.  Every successive reading has deepened my admiration for it.  Scott’s soldiers are always as good as his women (with exceptions) are weak; but here, while the soldiers are at their very best, the romantic figure of Rebecca redeems the female side of the story from the usual commonplace routine.  Scott drew manly men because he was a manly man himself, and found the task a sympathetic one.

He drew young heroines because a convention demanded it, which he had never the hardihood to break.  It is only when we get him for a dozen chapters on end with a minimum of petticoat—­in the long stretch, for example, from the beginning of the Tournament to the end of the Friar Tuck incident—­that we realize the height of continued romantic narrative to which he could attain.  I don’t think in the whole range of our literature we have a finer sustained flight than that.