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Rh speculations of profit. There must have been delicacy, as well as generosity, in the mind that concealed from the author any comparative failure in the sale of his works, lest it should damp his genius. Look what its first great publisher did for the publishing trade in Edinburgh; with him it rose into existence and prosperity, and with him it died. He originated our first periodical—and, both in literature and in politics, what vast influence has been, and is exercised by the "Edinburgh Review!" He, too, was the first person who saw the growing demand of the public mind for intellectual food; and the plan of cheap publication, so general now, and profitable to so many, was Mr. Constable's idea. In his long career, how many owed to him kindness and assistance—and how melancholy were its closing scenes! The body destroyed—the mind broken down: such was the close of the great publisher—and of the great author! "Woodstock" belongs to a better time. Scott felt his powers vigorous as ever—and no one could imagine and dwell upon such a creation as Alice Lee, and not be the better and the happier. Every time she appears on the scene she brings with her an atmosphere of purity and beauty. How lovely is the scene conjured up in the little hut, when the evening hymn disturbs, but to make musical, the silence of the forest glades; and the words of faith and hope, cheering the gentle and maiden heart, which was their worthy temple! Again, in what a noble and high spirit is her rejection of Charles's ungenerous suit. Only one of a school, whose profligacy was the cold result of vanity, could have insulted a purity so simple and so apparent, by dishonourable affection. But it is mockery to use the word affection in such a case. I do not believe that affection can exist without truth, without the ideal, and without blending with itself all that is best and most earnest in our nature. Charles thinks far less of Alice than of the sneer of Buckingham and the jest of Rochester. As I said before, a series of pictures might be formed of Alice in the various situations of "Woodstock." There are three which have always singularly impressed my imagination. The first is the little turret, with Dr. Rochecliffe in the little turret-chamber, when he proposes to her to make a seeming assignation with the King: there is the dignity that would light her eyes, the timidity that would colour her cheek, and the intuitive sense of right that could not for a moment tamper with its fine sense of maidenly propriety. Then the second, where she stands in the green coppice looking, as she thinks, her last on the lover who leaves her under the most bitter perversion of her real meaning: her cheek is white as monumental marble, and her long fair curls damp with the heavy dews—they are the faint outward sign of what is passing in her heart. The third is where, escaped from a danger which had seemed so certain and so imminent, she throws herself half in thankfulness, half in affection, into her father's arms, and then is suddenly recalled into a sweet and timid consciousness of Markham Everard's presence. None of Sir Walter's novels end more satisfactorily than "Woodstock." There could be but one destiny for Alice—the genial and quiet circle of an English home, whose days are filled with pleasant duties, and whose sphere lies around the hearth. The devoted daughter is what she ought to be—the affectionate mother and the happy wife. L. E. L.