resistible. But is there much really to quarrel about? Gosse himself is not quite so sure of his ground. He says that if Europe will have nothing of Walter Scott, his own England may keep him for herself, exulting in her possession of him as the author of the most perfect style in the national literature, as a writer who never wrote a word that was morbid, impertinent, mean, or low, as the most perfect exemplification of the English gentleman.
Gentleman, yes, but poet?
Scott's poetic vein, never gushing with a very copious flow, soon was clogged by his essentially prosaic temperament. Even when he was writing in verse, there was little of the poet's inspiration in him, as may be verified by recalling any one of the most famous passages of his poems. Here is what he says of the Last Minstrel:
"The way was long, the wind was cold,
The minstrel was infirm and old:
His withered cheek and tresses gray
Seemed to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy. . . ."
Or savour this decription of Melrose Abbey:
"If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moon-light;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.
Where the broken arches are blank in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain power
Streams on the ruined central tower . . .
Then go—but go alone the while,—
Then view St. David's ruined pile;
And home returning, smoothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair! . . ."
Quite as superficial is the art of his prose novels, replete with characters and cases known in the jargon of Latin critics as "interesting." Think of all the adventures, mysteries, duels, battles, intrigues, hairbreadth escapes, bandits, beautiful women, jolly friars,
