Scott, last year, having announced a sheet “as big as all out doors”—if we except one from a Dutch barn in Berks—was accused of endeavoring to pull down the whole literary temple, like another Sampson—of proceeding at a gait that would not pay, and of throwing dust in people’s eyes, who were expected to go it blind. The charge was a plain one—being delivered by people who use the plain language—the inclined plane—and Scott, who having lived “in Alexander’s time,” had opportunities to observe that people who play with “edged tools,” however expert, are apt to suffer from such familiarity with such hardware—determined, like a true Caledonian as he is, to make somebody smart for it, and to “Meet the devil an’ Dundee.” So, never minding the expense, but paying his price like a man, he rushed into the fray, shouting his war cry: “Cock up your beaver, And cock it fu’ sprush, We’ll over the border And gie them a brush; There’s something there We’ll teach better behavior— Hey, brave Johnnie lad, Cock up your beaver.” The foe, who in all his life was no “devil,” soon found his head in chancery, and “suffered some”—as “the Fancy” say—realizing, too, the proverb, “that listeners hear no good of themselves” in the freedom of debate of a legal set-to. Having witnessed the fight, and delivered a few hints in this game of cross-purposes, we are testimony. In fact, we are rather more driven to test other people’s money, now, than to handle our own. The battle was not drawn—but a check for $500 was—to put a check upon future proceedings out of the pale of equity—and Scott was conqueror! “So said—so done—he made no more remark, Nor waited for replies; But marched off with his prize— Leaving the vanquished merchants in the dark.” Most men would have reposed upon their laurels, and considered the glory sufficient, but the redoubted cotemporary of Alexander now “carries the war into Africa,” and in abounding greatness—“very like a whale”—“_a Leviathan_” great, he comes forth a terror to see. There is nothing like Scott in the museum—indeed, he is a museum in himself and a whole circulating-library in the bargain. He counts more feet of paper than any poet could measure in a month, and threatens to stop the supply of all small dealers. The rumor that Scott has _purchased_ a paper-mill, is, we are assured, “an invention of the enemy”—having been successful in one mill, he turns his thoughts to the million, and _feels_ a good deal like Park Benjamin, when he exclaims, “The whole boundless continent is ours!”