imagination with the love and devotion which had been his own solace. There is a striking reality about the character of Alice Lee. They are indeed unfortunate who can recall no likeness, who are not reminded of some actual instance of affection lightening adversity, and shedding its own sweetness over the sorrow which it could at least share. Alice Lee is among the most loveable of Scott's feminine creations. No writer possessed, to a greater degree, that faculty which Coleridge so prettily describes in one line—
"My eyes make pictures when they're shut."
And every appearance of Alice Lee is a picture. We see her first in the shadowy twilight, the light step of youth subdued to the heavier tread of age; and in the dialogue that follows, with what force, and yet what delicacy, we are made acquainted with the innermost recesses of the maiden's heart! Alice is at the most interesting period of a woman's existence—when the character is gradually forming under circumstances that develop all the latent qualities. The rose has opened to the summer—the girl has suddenly become a woman.
Alice Lee's predominate feeling is attachment to her father: her love for her cousin is a gentle and quiet love; it belongs to the ease and familiarity of childhood; it is constantly subdued by a rival and holier sentiment. Alice's devotion to her father is not merely the fulfilment of a duty, it is a warmer and keener emotion—there is pity and enthusiasm blended with her filial piety—she sees the kind-hearted old man bowed by adversity, mortified in all those innocent vanities which sit closely to every heart; his old age is deprived of those comforts with which youth may dispense—but which are hard to lose when they are, and have long been, matters both of right and habit. No wonder that his child clings to him with a deeper, sadder, tenderness. Who can avoid bringing the picture home to Scott himself? his difficulties seem peculiarly adapted to awaken the most painful sympathy. They came upon him in his old age, yet were met with the noblest spirit of resistance. From the time that he felt labour to be a duty—with what unflinching earnestness did he set about that labour! Not even when working to achieve the dearest objects of his ambition—to become the master of Abbotsford—to settle an eldest and beloved son in life—did Scott exert himself as he did when the exertion was for his creditors. It seems doubly hard when we think how much others had to do with the burden whose weight was upon him even to the grave.
While on this subject, may I be permitted a few words concerning one to whose memory but harsh and scanty justice has been allotted—I allude to the late Mr. Constable? Perhaps I may be biassed by the recollection of kindness extended to myself when very young. Mr. Constable was the first publisher with whom I had ever any communication. His peculiarly kind and courteous manner (I went to visit some near relatives in the North under his escort) left an indelible impression. I was then a child in everything, especially judgment; and would as little now venture to pronounce on affairs of which I can know nothing. But I may be allowed to dwell on the general benevolence of Mr. Constable's character. Sir Walter Scott particularly remarks, that Constable's individual expenses were moderate, and within what his income would have seemed to justify: if he failed, it was in the cause of that literature to which he devoted himself with an enthusiasm of an order far beyond the mere
