ment in the case it would fall very short of their own; not but that composition has its moments of keen and rapid delight when the scene rises vividly before you, and the mind is warm with the consciousness of its own powers; but these are only "angel visits," they do not form the staple of any work. Literature soon becomes a power, not, what it once was, a passion; but literary success, like all others, is only to be obtained and retained, by labour—and labour and inclination do not always go together. Take all our most eminent writers, and the quantity of work, hard work, they have got through, will be found enormous and perpetual. Literature, as a profession, allows little leisure, and less indulgence. The readers are the gainers: to them how little difference does it make that "Marmion " was written in youth, health, and prosperity; while "Woodstock" was the weary task of breaking health, and broken fortunes—their amusement is the same! But even to the most careless, a deeper interest is thrown around these volumes, and every little touch of individuality seems like the familiar intercourse of a friend. Lockhart says in the Memoir, "I know not how others interpreted various passages in ‘Woodstock,' but there were not a few that carried deep meaning, for such of Scott's own friends as were acquainted with, not his pecuniary misfortunes alone, but the drooping health
