I tell you without order the great and little strokes of humour and pathos just as I recollect, or am reminded of them at this moment by my companions. The fact is that we have had the volumes--only during the time we could read them, and as fast as we could read--lent to us as a great favour by one who was happy enough to have secured a copy before the first and second editions were sold in Dublin. When we applied, not a copy could be had; we expect one in the course of next week, but we resolved to write to the author without waiting for a second perusal. Judging by our own feeling as authors, we guess that he would rather know our genuine first thoughts, than wait for cool second thoughts, or have a regular eulogium or criticism put in the most lucid manner, and given in the finest sentences that ever were rounded. Is it possible that I have got thus far without having named Flora or Vich Ian Vohr--the _last Vich Ian Vohr!_ Yet our minds were full of them the moment before I began this letter: and could you have seen the tears forced from us by their fate, you would have been satisfied that the pathos went to our hearts. Ian Vohr from the first moment he appears, till the last, is an admirably-drawn and finely-sustained character--new, perfectly new to the English reader--often entertaining--always heroic--sometimes sublime. The gray spirit, the Bodach Glas, thrills _us_ with horror. _Us!_ What effect must it have upon those under the influence of the superstitions of the Highlands! This circumstance is admirably introduced: this superstition is a weakness quite consistent with the strength of the character, perfectly natural after the disappointment of all his hopes, in the dejection of his mind, and the exhaustion of his bodily strength. Flora we could wish was never called _Miss MacIvor_, because in this country there are tribes of vulgar Miss _Macs_, and this association is unfavourable to the sublime and beautiful of _your_ Flora--she is a true heroine. Her first appearance seized upon the mind and enchanted us so completely, that we were certain she was to be your heroine, and the wife of your hero--but with what inimitable art, you gradually convince the reader that she was not, as she said of herself, _capable of making Waverley happy._ Leaving her in full possession of our admiration, you first make us pity, then love, and at last give our undivided affection to Rose Bradwardine--sweet Scotch Rose! The last scene between Flora and Waverley is highly pathetic--my brother wishes that _bridal garment_ were _shroud:_ because when the heart is touched we seldom use metaphor, or quaint alliteration-bride-favour, bridal garment.