towards edification than offence. Many people are absurdly jealous on the subject of their coffined sires; nor is it wise in convivial moments to strike up an ancestral ditty to the tune of-- "Green grows the grass o'er the graves of my governors." It was an unfortunate accident of this kind which led to the battle of the Reidswire. "Carmichael bade him speak out plainly, And cloke no cause for ill nor gude; The other, answering him as vainly, _Began to reckon kin and blude._ He rase, and raxed him, where he stude, And bade him match him with his marrows: Then Tynedale heard them reason rude, And they loot off a flight of arrows." Scott's heroes are unusually terse and taciturn. They know their business better than to talk when they should be up and doing; and accordingly, with them, it is just a word and a blow. "But no whit weary did he seem, When, dancing in the sunny beam, He marked the crane on the Baron's crest; For his ready spear was in its rest. Few were the words, and stern and high, That marked the foemen's feudal hate; For question fierce and proud reply, Gave signal soon of dire debate. Their very coursers seem'd to know, That each was other's mortal foe, And snorted fire, when wheel'd around, To give each knight his vantage ground. In rapid round the Baron bent; He sighed a sigh, and pray'd a prayer; The prayer was to his patron saint-- The sigh was to his ladye fair. Stout Deloraine nor sigh'd nor pray'd, Nor saint nor ladye called to aid; But he stoop'd his head, and couch'd his spear, And spurr'd his stead to full career. The meeting of these champions proud Seem'd like the bursting thunder-cloud." This, you observe, is practical eloquence,--the perfect pantomime of rhetoric; and, when your eyes have recovered the dazzling shock of the encounter, you shall see William of Deloraine lying on the green sward, with the Baron's spear-head sunk a foot within his bosom. Nothing, in short, can be more conclusive or satisfactory. Let us now take an instance to the contrary. Few men have written with more fire and energy than Mr Macaulay; and, in the heart of a battle, he handles his falchion like a Legionary. Still, every now and then, the rhetorician peeps out in spite of himself, and he goes through the catalogue of the topics. Nothing can be better or more ballad-like than the blunt declaration by Horatius of his readiness to keep the bridge:-- "Then out spoke bold Horatius, The captain of the gate: 'To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late; And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his gods?'"