IN AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY. (Imperial Magazine, Nov.) N the annals of literature of the lighter order, I mean novels, perhaps there never has occurred a circumstance so extraordinary as that the author of Waverley should have still remained undiscovered; or that, after such unbounded applause as his works have met with in all quarters, the writer should continue to publish anonymously, instead of avowing his name, and enjoying the fame which his works have acquired him. Many have been the conjectures respecting his individuality, but the most general, perhaps too the best founded opinion, is, that Walter Scott is the author. Mr. Constable, the publisher, has stated in company, the sum of money he has paid Mr. Scott, which, from the amount, can only be inferred as including the price of these popular works. Still, however, a part of that money might have been paid on account of the anonymous writer, and Mr. S. might have been the receiver general. Mr. Scott, too, when Waverley first acquired fame, was passenger in one of the Leith smacks, and expressed his opinion of these works to a person unknown to him, in such terms of approbation, as were somewhat inconsistent with the idea of his being the author of them himself. Besides which, it is very likely from his well-known liberality of sentiment, that he may, from some motive or other, have, in the first instance, become the vehicle of their publication. A Mr. Mc. F. an episcopal bishop, in Scotland, has also been pointed at as their author with much appearance of probability, partly from the conspicuous talents he is allowed to possess, but more particularly by having been heard to relate the leading stories, long before they were given to the public. Whoever the eminent man may prove to be, the works are of that character, as to form a prominent feature in the literature of the present age, and the author must be acknowledged a person of most extraordinary talents, with an equal proportion both of modesty and self-denial. It is certainly of rare occurrence, that the same writ er should excel, both in prose and poetical composition: many of our best poets have acquired but little fame out of the sphere of poetry; perhaps Goldsmith is the one that succeeded most, in both kinds of composition. Dr. Johnson has written more in the spirit of poetry, in the Rambler and Rasselas, than will be found in the fettered verse of Irene; in proof of which, I will only instance the opening address in his beautiful work of Rasselas, though many other passages might be quoted more apt and striking to justify the preceding observation. "Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy, and pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope, who expect that age will perform the promises of youth, and that the deficiencies of the present day will be supplied by the morrow, attend to the history of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia !" Here you have a harmony in the words, and an expression so purely poetical, that verse might perhaps shackle, but could scarcely improve the sentence. But if Walter Scott be the real author of the works in question, how much then has he excelled every predecessor who has written in both kinds of composition; it may then, inthe deed, be said of him, as colosgreat sus of literature wrote in the epitaph of his friend Goldsmith," that he has left no species of writing untouched, or unadorned, by his pen," for these works embrace almost every subject and mode of writing. The author of these histories, more properly than novels, is evidently one that is eminently versed in the living and dead languages; Greek and Latin seem as familiar to him as his own tongue. French, Spanish, Italian, German, Gaelic, indeed all the languages of Europe, are not only known to him, but his quotations indicate a perfect acquisition of them; whilst history and science display the lights of a mind beyond measure comprehensive, and refined from the dross, both of pedantry and prejudice. These works will certainly be read and admired, when the poetry of Walter Scott will have become obsolete, and his materials forgotten they possess the advantage over these poems, of describing events of more recent date, of manners more genuine and authentic, and they abound with many minute circumstances of character, (national, religious, and political,) which, by reflecting the image of the times they describe, render them more amusing in some respects, and more instructive in this particular, than the works of the general historian. The author, too, possesses such dramatic power in the creation, support, and contrast of his characters, that had he chosen the real drama for his work, instead of the imitative form of the novel, there seems MY DEAR RUSSELL, THE every reason to suppose he would only have classed in the rear of Shakspeare. In reading these fine works, one circumstance bears strongly against the common opinion of their being Walter Scott's; namely, that all the poetry interspersed in the text, is any thing but resembling that great poet's works, being entirely of the plaintive pathetic kind, whereas Mr. Scott's principal feature and excellence is on the descriptive lyrical style. In making this observation, I do not allude to the introductory quotations at the commencement of each chapter, which are as various as the author's own genius; but to the poetry of the work itself. In fine, whoever the writer may be, no author in that species has excelled him, in exciting interest, in producing effect, or in practising that maxim, of mixing the "utile. dulci." Sketches of Society. (London Mag. Nov.) GREENWICH HOSPITAL. To Russell Powell, Esq. HE kind interest which all your family took in the letter which I addressed to your sister, descriptive of the Coronation, has rendered the task of writing to any one of you the most delightful amusement of my evening hours; and I have now a double pleasure in witnessing the various scenes which make up the great drama of life in this metropolis, from a knowledge of the gratification I shall have in describing them, and the interest you will feel in hearing them described. I love to visit the great national buildings, which commemorate either the country's taste, or the country's charities and wealth; -I love to behold the revelries, the glories, the pastimes, of the rich and the great;-I take a deep interest in the amusements, the rude sports, the noisy vivacity of the poor. You know that my knowledge of London had previously arisen principally from the books which I had read, and that my actual experience of life had been gained chiefly from the small life of market towns and country revels. How often, Russell, have we ejaculated wishes to each other, when standing at a wrestling match, or looking upon the lads of single stick, or, when walking over the most celebrated houses "for miles round,"-that we could see and admire those higher and more exciting struggles and combats of the great city,those theatres, temples, and palaces, of which we had so often read, even to dreaming-that we could watch and wonder at the workings of that tremendous hive, into which,-rash drone as I am!-I have at length ventured to creep. I am now, my dear Russell, seeing all that can be seen,-insinuating myself into scenes and amongst characters which half of London even know only by hearsay,-wandering amongst the noblest buildings around me,-harvesting, in truth, within the granary of my mind, food enough to last your hungry spirits through the winter. Russell! strange and opposite have been my researches of late.→ I have been to the green-room of a principal theatre, and witnessed all the craft, hate, and envy, "found only on the stage," as my Lord Byron well expresses it in his sweet nuisance, Don Juan;-and I have penetrated into all the heartless eagerness, guileful ferocity, and desperate spirit of the cock-pit. Greenwich Hospital has opened to my eyes its majestic, enormous, and beautiful charities; and the bear-garden has made me familiar with its strange, antique, and brutal mysteries. I have beheld the costly state and fineries of a court,—the strife, the terrors, the appalling fierceness of a bull-fight, the pictorial wealth and stately formalities of Hampton palace,-the beautiful and exciting conflict of two great pugilists. -The buildings, the theatres, the court, will have gaiety and beauty enough to interest the ladies' minds; for what female heart is proof against pointed lace, or can contemplate ruffles without emotion ?-while the rougher diamonds of the cock-pit, the bear-garden, and such rude mines, will be rich jewels in the cap of your curiosity. I have, indeed, a scene in store which will be brighter and costlier than all the rest; but I dare not hint at it yet, lest I ruin my chance of being taken to it at all, or rashly endanger my safety while there :-rest, rest, perturbed Russell! until I shall in my wisdom see fit to exhibit this brilliant and matchless gem to your wondering, your delighted eyes. I should not omit to inform you, that Mrs. Mallinson's letter of introduction to the Mortons has been to me most serviceable and successful, for they have taken me by the hand with the utmost friendship and liberality, and have obtained for me the sight of many London lions:-indeed, they appear to me to have access to all the chief cages of the city, and the Hectors and Fannys of this marvellous metropolis are familiar to them as household words. To render my letters the more intelligible to you, as the Mortons will make the principal dramatis personæ of my epistolary drama, I will attempt as clear a description of them as I can accomplish; relying upon your ingenuity for colouring my sketch with the lively and gallant tints of your own imagination. I shall merely offer you the family in outline, after the style of Retsch's Faust, being convinced that none but a masterly hand can safely venture upon a minute finishing. Mr. Morton, the father, is one of those gentle and silent characters, which are rather spirits of the household, than active and common mortal portions of it :-never mingling in the petty strifes and light joys of the moment,-but softening and quieting the former with a bland and pleasant placidity, and heightening the latter by a cheerful and generous regard. His age I should guess to be about fifty-six; you may perceive that Time is beginning to write a few faint lines upon his forehead, and that his eye begins to show that patient wisdom which only comes of the light of many years. His hair (which Mrs. Morton tells me was a raven black "when they were married," and of which she has one precious lock, neatly folded in fragrant paper, and kept in the innermost recess of her pocket-book) is just dashed with a glossy white, which seems to light upon him more like the glory than the waste of age, and brightens, if possible, the serene sweetness of his forehead. He speaks very little, but he looks as if his thoughts ran on with the radiant solemnity of a river. His observations, indeed, when they do come forth, are remarkable only for their simplicity and humane gentleness ;-and you feel convinced that they are, as the old play hath it, killed with kindness. thoughts remain with him, but his feelings come forth and speak, and you may ever perceive that his mind discourses silently and with itself, while his heart is the active and eloquent minister to his tongue. I wish, Russell, you could see him sitting at his table, or at his fireside, and lighting the conversation with his pleasant looks. All customs, all pleasures, all regulations, take their exactness from his presence, and I never saw order wear so attractive a garb as that in which Mr. Morton clothes her. He has the most precise and quiet mode of taking his seat, or reading the newspaper (and quiet as he naturally is, he is yet deep His ly interested in the political agitations which ever disturb the heart of his country,) or stirring the fire, or putting on his spectacles. He goes to an office somewhere in the city daily, but I do not see that his merchant life distracts his home comforts, or molests his morning thoughts; whether it be that his peculiar temperament places all commercial fluctuation in a mild and softening atmosphere, or that he meets not with those temporary difficulties and perplexities which call daily at the most obscure and dusty dens of business, and afflict the nerves of the oldest and most staid merchant, I know not; but the rise and fall of stocksthe intricacies of the markets-the uncertainties and dangers of the shipping -the more polished difficulties, and changes, and higher mysteries of the court, abide not with Mr. Morton. He hears the din of the nation, and it stuns him not he sees the great game of the world played, and heeds not its rogueries, its ruin, or its fascinations. His heart is in his home, and in his family, and he does not ever look to the winners and the losers elsewhere. Such is Mr. Morton. To me he is unusually loquacious, which is a sure mark of his regarding me kindly;and the other evening he took particular joy, during our rubber, in always having a king for my queen, and laughed outright in detecting a revoke which I committed; which was the most gratifying sign.-He, in general, pities the objects of his triumphs, and silently pines over his own success, which he ever thinks "runs too much on one side." Mrs. Morton is a woman of the most superior mind and admirable manners; and I never hear her mentioned, even by friends, without expressions of the most untainted endearment. The si lence and worldly inaptitude of her lifepartner have called forth the powers of her mind, and given a constant exercise to her fine judgment. She has the most pleasing way of insinuating plain advice that I ever beheld; and I believe it is impossible to disregard the sweet persuasion and delicate earnestness of her voice and expression. She is younger than, Mr. Morton by some years, and has a face still eloquent with beauty. The dark eye, the happy forehead, the pale cheek,-the mouth, made ever pleasant by a thousand amiable smiles, seem still to retain the sweeter virtues of youth, and enforce the wisdom of experience by giving it a charm which experience seldom possesses. Mrs. Morton is admirably well read in all the sound authors of our language, and can converse on subjects which seldom come under the consideration of women. She is mistress of the learned enthusiasm, holy poesy, and breathing piety of Bishop Taylor, and can lead you through the quaint periods of Sir Thomas Browne's rich and antique philosophy. Shakspeare and Spenser are familiar to her, in their deepest fancies, and most curious excellences; and she is skilful in her knowledge of the works of the most eminent painters. She enlightens common walks, the idlest evening rambles, with talk, all breathing information, and pleasure, and truth. The distant gloomy landscape reminds her of this or that picture; and she points out the disposition of the lights and shades which frames the resemblance. She never delivers her opinions authoritatively, or with a consciousness of power, but suggests wisdom for the adoption of others;-and often so expresses an ingenious thought, that her husband, by a word or two, seems to originate rather than confirm it. It is her chief desire to make Mr. Morton appear superior to herself, and to that end, her voice and her manner are gentle and subdued in his presence, as though she took all her feelings, thoughts, and wishes, from his heart and mind:though to those whose observation is acute, it is evident that her knowledge is far more profound than she chuses to lay open. By an ease of manner peculiar to herself she accommodates her mind to that of every person with whom she converses, and never offends an inferior capacity with the least sign of superiority. With all these higher qualifications of mind, she is at heart a very woman, and has all the delicate tenderness, and unfailing love, of her sex. The lock of hair which she preserves with the youthful mystery of a girl, awakens early pride and young joy within her, and sets her dreaming over Mr. Morton's marriage dress and manly person, and calls up the mode of his hair, and the astounding colour of his coat. "Your uncle was dressed in bright blue, and had ruffles of this breadth (measuring a width upon her sleeve, that never fails to exalt all the female eyebrows in the room,) I think he was certainly the handsomest man of his time!--I wore that dress which you now and then contemplate in my drawer, and I cannot say I think the brides of the present age dress so becomingly as those of my own day." Such womanly reminiscences as these are always said with a mellowed tone of voice, and with a glisten of the eye, which show how much the devoted nature of the sex triumphs over the ac- quired formalities and tastes of life. Mrs. Morton sits at her table like a queen, in the true dignity of grace, and I am happy to say, Russell, that I stand well at her drawing-rooms and domestic court. This excellent couple are without children of their own, but they have taken to their bosoms two nieces and a nephew, the daughters and son of Mr. Morton's brother, whom they cherish as their own, and upon whom they lavish all those paternal endearments which, in the want of an object to rest upon, so often irritate and embitter the married life. The eldest of these young ladies is naturally of a good heart, I believe; but she has so many acquired faults, so many lady-artifices and studied prettinesses, that I never know when she is thoroughly interested or earnestly moved. She is a polite adorer of literature and the drama,-and follows the stage more like a religion than a light and occasional amusement. From certain connexions she has become intimate with some of the performers, and the consequence is, that a morning visit from any tragedian is a sure forerunner of seriousness for the day, a support and a stay to her pensive looks, which she leans upon with a most dignified reserve. Miss Frudeuce Morton she was the first of an intended series of the cardinal virtues, which, to her mother's deep disappoint She ment, was broken in upon by the perverse arrival of two brothers into this breathing world, Miss Prudence Morton, I repeat her name, is a decided Blue, at least as far as youth and its established foibles will permit her to be. She is tall, and has dark earnest eyes, which at evening parties go through and through you in search of literary information. She loves to secure to her own reading the person and the attention of some young gentleman in the sonnet line, and to extract all the sweets from his brain as store for the cells of her own pericranium. sits at him. She so disposes her attitude, that his bodily retreat is rendered impracticable. Her eyes are levelled against him, and she steadily fires down upon his helpless ears the twenty-pounders of her heavy interrogatories."Have you seen Campbell's song in the last New Monthly, and is it not charming?"—"O! What is Lord Byron about? Mr.- (naming some literary name) tells me that he is writing a tragedy, I think Marino Faliero, horrid! Mr. (naming an actor) assures me it would never get up! Have you read Don Juan? I have not: but I think it abounds with beautiful passages, though it is a sad wicked book. O! what do you think of 's prose? Is it not flowery and beautiful? You never know whether it is poetry or prose, which is so vastly delightful."-This is a slight and meagre sketch of the style of Prudence's conversation, which I must, as usual, leave to the powers which you possess of making a miserable description opulent. She has great good nature, the eternal palliative of all disagreeable qualities, and can at a quiet fireside make herself amusing and intelligent, but a stranger at tea, or an extra wax candle in the sconce, is the never-failing destroyer of all her natural free dom. And she straightway exalts herself into the wary, the wise, the literary Prudence. Some of her sayings are remembered, but considering the plen tiful crop of her conversation it is wonderful that a few scanty ears only are preserved. When her form is at its height she, like the lovely Marcia, "towers above her sex," and that con |