convicted the accused "of hiding two faces under one hood." His friends recognised in each successive volume anecdotes which they themselves had told him; but never did a wandering gipsy know so well how to disguise a stolen child, to hinder its recognition, as Walter Scott knew how to transmogrify a story so as to keep its point but destroy its identity. When he told anything to a friend, and the friend, after laughing at it, and admiring it, said, "Well, it strikes me to be very like the story I told you last week." "My good sir," Sir Walter would say, "it's the same. All that I've done is to put a cockit hat upon its head, and a goldheaded stick into its hand to mak' it fit for decent company." Chief Commissioner Adam, one of his greatest friends, told him one day that on his first going to St. Andrew's to see a Professor there, the aged doctor made him look again and again at a fine old tower. "Till I saw that tower," said the Professor, " and studied it, I thought the beauty of architecture consisted in curlywurlies, but now I find it consists in symmetry and proportion." In the following winter "Rob Roy" was published, and there it was written, greatly to the Commissioner's delight, that the Cathedral Church of Glasgow is a respectable Gothic structure, without any "curlywurlies."

One day he was riding near home, and heard

a man at work on the road tell another labourer to "whummle" the stones into the dyke. Sir Walter pulled up, gave the man half-a-crown, and said, "You've well earned the money. I've been seeking for a word for a long time, and that's just the one I require." He introduced it with great effect in the "Fortunes of Nigel," and doubtless found it very cheap at half-acrown. It means "to tumble over all of a heap," and though very likely only a transposition of the English "whelm," is very expressive, and most unmistakeable Scotch.

1821. In this year died the facetious auctioneer, John Ballantyne. Ignorant of his own position to the last, he left his friend and patron a legacy of two thousand pounds. It would have sounded better if it had been twenty, and never been felt by his heir-at-law, for, on winding up his affairs, he was found to be hopelessly in debt. The affection of Scott had never failed, though to his carelessness and blundering it was owing that he had been in such difficulties, and suffered so much loss. When he was buried, one of the truest mourners there was the great author. The sun shone out at the moment the

body was laid in the grave. Scott looked up at the Calton-hill, which was glowing in the sunshine. He said to his son-in-law, "I think there'll be less sunshine for me in the world now

that Johnnie's gone." A good creature, Johnnie, in spite of all his faults. One day, when he was selling some books, he was struck with the worn expression of a young student of divinity who stood among the spectators, but was too poor to buy. He was perhaps too poor even to live, for he seemed weak, and was probably but scantily fed. John asked him if he was in bad health, and when the poor student assented with a sigh, "Come," said the auctioneer, "I think I ken the secret o' a sort of draft that wad relieve you; particularly," he added, handing him a cheque for five or ten pounds-" particularly, my dear, if taken on an empty stomach."

James Ballantyne, the brother, still remained a devoted adherent of the author of " Waverley," and printer of all his works. The persons, therefore, with whom Scott had most business transactions now were Ballantyne, the printer, and Constable, the publisher. This was a man of astonishing skill in his trade, as sagacious in detecting the slightest change in popular favour as the wariest pilot in catching a variation in the wind. He catered, therefore, for the public taste in a way unapproached by all his competitors, and has the imperishable honour of being the introducer of that great change in bookselling speculation by which the public secured a literature at once cheap and excellent. In this

he has been followed by Charles Knight, whose services to the million, both as publisher and author, it is impossible to over-estimate,-by the Murrays and Blackwoods, and other recognised potentates of the trade, till the dream of the Edinburgh publisher has been fulfilled to its utmost extent, and the highest works of genius are brought within reach of the humblest

means.

The common flower in the Eastern allegory, which said, "I am not the rose, but I have lived near it so long that I smell as sweetly," was but a faint adumbration of Mr. Constable's connexion with Walter Scott. Their intimacy grew closer and closer as interest gave its cementing power to friendship. The bookseller criticised the author's works in manuscript, showed much shrewdness in his remarks, and was a great authority, particularly on titlepages and the names to be given to the novels. Sometimes, when he succeeded in getting his proposed name adopted, his pride and gratification knew no bounds. Scott at one time intended to call one of his books by the name of the character which he thought the principal one in the story. "No, no," said Constable, "the real hero of the book is Rob Roy, and Rob Roy it should be called." When Scott agreed to this, the worthy bookseller thought his im

mortality was at last achieved; and Lockhart says, that one morning he was heard walking up and down in the full expansion of his glory, and saying, "By George, sir, I am all but the author of 'Waverley.'

It is a pity that the same mania which possessed the publisher, and tempted him to assume the part of the author, got hold of the author in respect of the publisher's share of the adventure. Experience had not yet taught him the great secret of success in life-the division of labour, and the necessity, as the phrase is, of the ploughman sticking to the plough and the smith to his anvil. His dealings were carried on on a large scale in common, or rather in partnership, with these two men. In reliance on the inexhaustible stores of his invention, he entered into engagements to furnish four full-sized novels at a certain price, no time for their production being fixed, and with unexampled industry finished them all within the year. For these, paid in advance, he drew bills on Constable, at the rate of fifteen thousand a year; and the public showed no diminution of its taste for any dish he set before it. In entering, therefore, on any fresh expenditure on land or building, he calculated on clearing off his liabilities at the rate of thirty thousand pounds in two years. In case, however, the inconstant public