culiarly to both French and Irish. The Scotch are too cautious to be witty—they take thought beforehand of their answers; they are not people of impulse, and wit is an impulse. "It springs spontaneous if it spring." But then they have humour, rich, racy, sly humour, full of national character, and nearly allied to pathos. This humour Scott has in perfection. Wit belongs to the head, and humour to the heart—there is always somewhat of inconsequence in the character of a witty people.
What a strange page in human history is that of social distinction; no people so savage but they have a sort of fashion. Even among the wild people in whose country I am now writing, there are all the small distinctions of small gentility—for example, it is not "comme il faut to wear silk."
Yet, as if to vindicate the humanity of Scott's creations, we are insensibly interested in the Euphuist. I would almost accuse the reader of hard-heartedness, who does not sympathise with the knight's mortification, when the rough English soldier so remorsely reveals the ignoble parentage of his mother. We do not know a prettier scene, yet "touching withal," than where Sir Percie leaves the planner and companion of his escape to return, as he supposes, to her father. He looks back and sees her standing desolate and hopeless, with the gold chain neglected in her hand. With one deli-
