The Waverley novels, by Sir Walter Scott, complete in 12 vol., printed from the latest English ed., embracing the author's last corrections, prefaces & notes.

140 WAVERLEY NOVELS.
they are buried, and whose words haunt our ears after their bones are long
mouldered in the dust."
"Ay, ay! well," answered Desborough, to whom this description of the
old poet was unintelligible- " I for one desire his room rather than his
company; one of your conjurors, I warrant him. But what says he to the
matter?"
"Only a slight spell, which I will take the freedom to repeat to Colonel
Everard," said Bletson; "but which would be as bad as Greek to thee,
Desborough. Old Geoffrey lays the whole blame of our nocturnal disturbance on superfluity of humours,'Which causen folk to dred in their dreams
Of arrowes, and of fire with red gleams,
Right as the humour of melancholy
Causeth nany a man in sleep to cry
For fear of great hulls and bears black,
And others that black devils will them take."'
While he was thus declaiming, Everard observed a book sticking out
from beneath the pillow of the bed lately occupied by the honourable
member.
"Is that Chaucer?" he said, making to the volume; "I would like to
look at the passage""Chaucer?" said Bletson, hastening to interfere; "no-that is Lucretius, my darling Lucretius. I cannot let you see it; I have some private
marks."
But by this time Everard had the book in his hand. "Lucretius?" he
said; "no, Master Bletson, this is not Lucretius, but a fitter comforter in
dread or in danger-Why should you be ashamed of it? Only, Bletson,
instead of resting your head, if you can but anchor your heart upon this
volume, it may serve you in better stead than Lucretius or Chaucer
either."
"Why, what book is it?" said Bletson, his pale cheek colouring with
the shame of detection. "Oh! the Bible!" throwing it down contemptuously; "some book of my fellow Gibeon's; these Jews have been
always superstitious-ever since Juvenal's time, thou knowest-'Qualiacunque voles Judaei somnia vendunt.'
He left me the old book for a spell, I warrant you; for'tis a well-meaning
fool."
" He would scarce have left the New Testament as well as the Old," said
Everard. " Come, my dear Bletson, do not be ashamed of the wisest thing
you ever did in your life, supposing you took your Bible in an hour of
apprehension, with a view to profit by the contents."
Bletson's vanity was so much galled that it overcame his constitutional
cowardice. His little thin fingers quivered for eagerness, his neck and
cheeks were as red as scarlet, and his articulation was as thick and vehement as-in short, as if he had been no philosopher.
"Master Everard," he said, "you are a man of the sword, sir; and, sir,
you seem to suppose yourself entitled to say whatever comes into your mind
with respect to civilians, sir. But I would have you remember, sir, that
there are bounds beyond which human patience may be urged, sir' —and
jests which no man of honour will endure, sir- and therefore I expect an
apology for your present language, Colonel Everard, and this unmannerly
jesting, sir - or you may chance to hear from me in a way that will not
please you."
Everard could not help smiling at this explosion of valour, engendered
by irritated self-love.
" Look you, Master Bletson," he said, " I have been a soldier, that is true,
but I was never a bloody-minded one; and, as a Christian, I am unwilling
to enlarge the kingdom of darkness by sending a new vassal thither before