SOURCE: Lamont, Claire. “Waverley and the Battle of Culloden.” Essays and Studies 44 (1991): 14-26.

[In the following essay, Lamont investigates thematic inconsistencies between the romantic and historical plots of Waverley, considering Scott's motive for intentionally relegating to the background the devastating defeat of the Jacobite army at Culloden.]

Walter Scott's first novel, Waverley, is set in the years 1744-46 and deals with the rising on behalf of the Jacobite claimant to the throne of George II known as ‘the '45’. The decisive battle of those years was that at Culloden in April 1746 where the Jacobites were finally defeated.¹ A battle is presented in Waverley; but it is not Culloden. The battle that occurs in the novel is that fought at Prestonpans in September 1745, which was a Jacobite victory. Culloden is conspicuously absent. My purpose in what follows is to ask what is the consequence for our reading of Waverley of the subordination of the battle of Culloden?

Waverley was published in 1814 in three volumes. The first volume ends with chapters in which the young English hero, Edward Waverley, is introduced to the traditional and Jacobite culture of the Scottish Highlands in the household of the clan chieftain Fergus Mac-Ivor. The second volume ends with chapters describing the battle of Prestonpans in which Prince Charles Stuart with his Highland followers defeated a Hanoverian army. It is in the third volume that the balance of power shifts from the Jacobites to the Hanoverians. The Jacobites had entered Edinburgh and established Prince Charles at Holyrood, the palace of his ancestors. But they had never entirely captured the city: the Hanoverian garrison of Edinburgh Castle held out. Jacobite rejoicing is disturbed by the periodic eruption of canon-fire from the Castle. The future of Scotland, if not of Britain, is in the balance as the opposing sides hold the two symbolic sites which mark the extremities of the High Street of Edinburgh, Holyrood Palace to the east and Edinburgh Castle to the west, right of birth versus actual power. As those holding the Castle are gradually revealed to be invincible, the fortunes of the Jacobites start to turn. Ominously, the march into England is undertaken only when the Jacobites weary of besieging the Castle.

It is in volume II, chapter 17 that Edward Waverley finds himself at the court of Prince Charles at Holyrood on the eve of the march which led to the battle of Prestonpans. Waverley joins the Jacobite army, and the novel then follows that army to the battle and on its subsequent march into England. On the retreat from Derby the Jacobites were involved in a skirmish at Clifton, near Penrith, where in the novel Fergus Mac-Ivor is captured and Waverley is separated from the army in the dark and confusion. Between volume II, chapter 17 and volume III, chapter 12 the progress of the Jacobite army is followed through Waverley's participation in their march. (Although one has to notice that neither his joining it nor his leaving it is premeditated). Once Waverley is separated from the army we do not hear directly of its fate. It was a bitter one. The army retreated further and further north. It won a defensive battle at Falkirk; and then was crushingly defeated at Culloden, near Inverness.

The battle of Culloden, the last battle on British soil, was fought on 16 April 1746. It was a defeat from which Jacobitism as a political force never recovered. But the significance of the battle for the Highlands of Scotland was not just that it was a defeat; it was a defeat after which the victor took particularly savage vengeance against his opponents. The fright that the episode had given to the government in London caused it to follow Culloden with a series of measures designed, by destroying the culture from which such unruly forces had erupted, to prevent any repetition. When one mentions Culloden one refers not only to a battle, but also to its savage aftermath, and to painful social consequences for Highland Scotland in the decades that followed.

It could be argued that a historical novelist setting a work in 1744-46 might consciously try to avoid dealing with the consequences of a battle, and might invite the reader to see these years as an island of time. But that is prevented in Waverley by the device of the narrator—albeit a vestigial narrator in comparison with Scott's later ones. This narrator self-consciously starts his novel on 1 November 1805,² and after a semi-humorous rehearsal of the options gives it the subtitle 'Tis Sixty Years Since (pp. 3-4). These indications of the date of writing, not to mention several subsequent interpositions by the narrator, bring into the novel the gap in time since the events it describes took place. The treatment of Culloden in the novel cannot be explained by supposing the narrator unaware of the implications of his subtitle.

My concern is with the ending of the novel. The tale is told from the point of the hero. At the end he receives a pardon from the government and marries the simpler and less heroic of the two heroines. The end of Waverley seems to be concerned with reconciliation and reconstruction, and with marriage as a symbol of harmony restored. Does the reader in the midst of this remember Culloden?

Scott's historical novels commonly bring together a romance plot and a historical theme. It is not therefore surprising that the moment of closure should present some difficulty. A reading of the end of Waverley that finds its closure satisfactory is one which concentrates on the romance plot of the novel. According to that reading a young man sets out on his first adventure into the adult world. He is seduced by his romantic tastes into offering his service to Flora Mac-Ivor and Prince Charles Stuart. After living through the painful consequences of these allegiances, he finds himself ‘A sadder and a wiser man’ (p. 296). He hopes ‘that it might never again be his lot to draw his sword in civil conflict’ (p. 283) and discovers the domestic side of his character with Rose Bradwardine. The ending of the novel is full of episodes implying closure: the marriage of Edward and Rose; the repair of Tully-Veolan, the house damaged by the civil war; the reclothing of the poor retainer, Davie Gellatly, who had been left destitute during the fighting. The old paintings in the house, used by the invading soldiers for target-practice (p. 297), are replaced by this:

a large and spirited painting, representing Fergus Mac-Ivor and Waverley in their Highland dress, the scene a wild, rocky, and mountainous pass, down which the clan were descending in the background.

(p. 338)

Waverley's arms, given him by Prince Charles, are set on the mantelpiece as an ornament (pp. 196, 338). These elements of the narrative all have one tendency, they endorse and celebrate peace. But they do more than that. They seem to rejoice in the loss of certain features of the old Scotland. The fact that the soldiers had burned ‘the stables and out-houses’ at Tully-Veolan is seen as a good opportunity to replace them with ‘buildings of a lighter and more picturesque appearance’ (pp. 296, 334). We are now moving into a culture in which the proper place for a sword is a mantelpiece. The place for young men in tartan is in paintings. This ‘symbolic’ reading of the ending of the novel projects the mind into the future. It celebrates prospectively the peace and prosperity to come to Scotland through the defeat of the Jacobites. The new Hanoverian world will treat the old Scottish culture as a romantic ornament. The future dimension of its symbolism is betrayed by the narrator's compliment to the painter of the portrait of Fergus and Waverley:

Raeburn himself, (whose Highland Chiefs do all but walk out of the canvas) could not have done more justice to the subject; and the ardent, fiery, and impetuous character of the unfortunate Chief of Glennaquoich was finely contrasted with the contemplative, fanciful, and enthusiastic expression of his happier friend.

(p. 338)

Henry Raeburn was born in 1756; his portraits of clan chiefs are of Scott's period, not of the 1740s. This interpretation might be called humanist in that it seeks to find satisfactory strategies of closure, is willing to see large themes mediated through the individual, and sees the novel as making a positive comment on life. But can the symbolic reading of the end of the novel as a celebration of peace and prosperity be sustained if the reader remembers the other theme of the novel, not the romance but the history?

To remember the historical theme is to deconstruct the romance ending. While the romance plot of the novel is being rounded off in a series of positive symbols, what is the fate of the Jacobites? Waverley is separated from the Jacobite army at Clifton, and as he lies in hiding in Cumberland news filters through to him of the Jacobite retreat and the battle of Falkirk. When a few months later he reached the borders of Scotland,

he heard the tidings of the decisive battle of Culloden. It was no more than he had long expected, though the success at Falkirk had thrown a faint and setting gleam over the arms of the Chevalier. Yet it came upon him like a shock, by which he was for a time altogether unmanned. The generous, the courteous, the noble-minded Adventurer, was then a fugitive, with a price upon his head; his adherents, so brave, so enthusiastic, so faithful, were dead, imprisoned, or exiled.

(p. 293)

A friendly Edinburgh landlady gives him news of Fergus Mac-Ivor, which she had heard from one of his followers:

‘The poor Hieland body, Dugald Mahony, cam here a while since wi'ane o' his arms cut off, and a sair clour in the head—ye'll mind Dugald, he carried aye an axe on his shouther—and he cam here just begging, as I may say, for something to eat.’

(p. 294)

Waverley asks about his other friends, and she replies, ‘Ou, wha kens where ony o'them is now? puir things, they're sair ta'en down for their white cockades and their white roses’ (p. 295). Waverley soon sees the consequences of war for himself:

As he advanced northward, the traces of war became visible. Broken carriages, dead horses, unroofed cottages, trees felled for palisades, and bridges destroyed, or only partially repaired; all indicated the movements of hostile armies. In those places where the gentry were attached to the Stuart cause, their houses seemed dismantled or deserted, the usual course of what may be called ornamental labour was totally interrupted, and the inhabitants were seen gliding about with fear, sorrow, and dejection in their faces.

(p. 295)

Waverley visits Fergus Mac-Ivor in prison in Carlisle on the morning of the day on which he was to suffer the penalty for high treason. The chieftain recommends his clansmen to Waverley's protection:

‘… when you hear of these poor Mac-Ivors being distressed about their miserable possessions by some harsh overseer or agent of government, remember that you have worn their tartan, and are an adopted son of their race.’

(p. 325)

And he adds, ‘Would to God … I could bequeath to you my rights to the love and obedience of this primitive and brave race’ (p. 325).

The bitter social consequences of the defeat of the Jacobites are certainly not omitted from Waverley. The end of the novel, however, gives diminishing attention to them. The novel turns away from the Highlanders in a post-Culloden world to present us with Waverley's marriage, his newly restored furniture, and his pictures. We are not invited to consider that possession of the arms which Waverley places on the mantelpiece would have been illegal under the Disarming Act of 1746. The end of the novel puts side by side an individual's achievement of responsible adulthood and measures designed to destroy a culture. The two come together awkwardly. Tully-Veolan is speedily repaired. It is restored by waving a wand—or as the Baron suggests by ‘brownies and fairies’ (p. 339). The reader of the historical plot knows that the wand, if it was not entirely out of the world of romance, was a southerner's money, and that there was no such wand in the rest of the Highlands. The problem is that the romance theme looks forwards, and the historical theme looks backwards to what has been destroyed, and the end of the novel risks a clash between them.

It may be objected that the novel has to proceed by metonymy, letting the part stand for the whole. It cannot be said that Scott flinched from introducing into his novel the horror of civil war, and the atrocity with which the '45 was suppressed. The death of Fergus Mac-Ivor by the horrible death for high treason is sufficient evidence that the novel does not seek to deny suffering. Surely Scott has represented the violence and loss of the '45, and the novel is allowed to end with celebration and hope for the future? The trouble is that the history of the novel has established itself with a remorseless continuum which will not allow itself to be forgotten: Prestonpans, Derby, Clifton, Falkirk … Who cares about the recovery of the Blessed Bear of Bradwardine, the Baron's favourite drinking-cup, in the aftermath of Culloden? Once you have mentioned the penalty for high treason (which was hanging, drawing, and quartering) and the battle of Culloden, the positive symbols which close the romance plot are seriously undermined.

This interpretation of the ending of Waverley has not been a dominant one, but it has been there from the beginning. A reviewer in the Caledonian Mercury, an Edinburgh newspaper with a Jacobite ancestry, on 29 October 1814 wrote this, after mentioning the death of Fergus Mac-Ivor:

But the reader, wholly absorbed in the interest of the preceding scenes, which are indeed nobly described, turns with some degree of aversion from the story of Waverley's marriage, and the merriment by which it is followed. The fate of the unfortunate Chieftain, and his faithful companion Evan Dhu—their heroism in suffering, and their noble contempt of death, with all its tragical apparatus, leaves the mind in too solemn a mood to follow so trifling a character as Waverley through the lighter scenes of this prosperous life.

The difference between these two readings of the end of Waverley is the difference between criticism written from the supposed point of view of the writer and that written from the point of view of the reader. The writer is in one account free to choose where to start and end the narrative, to substitute one act of violence for another, and to end with symbolic episodes which look further forward than the period in which they are set. The reader in the other account is free to dislike the result. And the reader is more likely to dislike the result in an historical novel than in one that is not apparently historical, because in such a novel the reader is part-possessor of the subject-matter. There is the risk of a clash at the end of Waverley between the romance plot, which ends optimistically, and the historical theme, which ends tragically. For some readers at least, what they know about the history, the narrative of the nation, clashes with the narrative of Edward Waverley. The sovereignty of the author over history works only where either the reader does not know the history or is willing to see it reinterpreted. Most audiences of Shakespeare's history plays do not know where he has altered history. The only difficulty comes when they do, and when they refuse to yield their interpretation to his. There are those who will not accept his presentation of, for instance, Joan of Arc or Richard III. In historical fiction at least, history is what you remember. And many people remember the '45. For those who do, the end of Waverley is not just forward-looking symbolism, it looks dangerously like Whig propaganda.

The argument so far has derived an unsatisfactory pair of alternatives from the conclusion of Waverley: either the romance ending is imposed on history or the history mars the romance ending. A way out of this dilemma is shown by Mary Lascelles in a passage which reconciles the claims of both writer and reader. In her book on historical fiction, The Story-Teller Retrieves the Past (Oxford, 1980), she writes:

The marriage of history with invented narrative poses its own problems. History will accept romance as partner, if the reader will but withdraw his critical faculties from the conclusion, as Scott requires. This is a comfortable convention, and, if we are inclined to demur at such a regard for our comfort, we shall not be reading this kind of book. Nevertheless, it shows a want of literary good manners in the writer if he treats a grave historical situation otherwise than seriously, before this separation of the partners, as it were by mutual agreement, frees him from any such obligation.

(p. 76)

This presents the reading of historical fiction of Scott's type as a bargain between reader and novelist. The reader must ‘withdraw his critical faculties’ at the end. Such withdrawal is assisted by the unique bookishness of the novel as a genre: readers of the conventionally-published novel have always been able to see, by the small number of pages left, how close they are to the end, and make adjustments to their reading accordingly. Under this interpretation the reader acquiesces in the constraints imposed by both novel and book.

Does Waverley help us to read its ending? To borrow terminology from Wolfgang Iser, what is there in the structuring of the text which would ‘imply’ the reader of its conclusion? Iser addresses the problem of the conclusion of Waverley:

While the hero's function is to bring past reality to life, history itself does not come to any end—as Scott's subtitle indicates—and so the novel can only come to a stop if the main figure once more steps into the foreground. But this would mean a total change of emphasis as regards the subject matter of the novel, with Waverley taking precedence over events and history supplying only the trappings for the hero's development. Scott deals with this problem by adopting an ironic style in depicting his hero at the end.³

Iser suggests that irony in Scott's description of Waverley's marriage deflects attention away from the hero and on to history. (He does not say anything about the significance of that history; history may not come to an end, but it is not an uninflected continuum). There is certainly irony in the last chapters of the novel, the sort of irony appropriate to bystanders at a wedding, and to a narrator closing a novel with conventional symbols. But does such irony have the effect of leaving ‘historical reality … properly situated in the foreground’? I suggest on the contrary that the attention of the novel is not directed back to the historical theme at its end, because in the ‘prestructuring of the potential meaning’⁴ of the conclusion some techniques of closure have already been applied to the historical theme.

In writing historical fiction Scott established a model which has been followed by many later historical novelists: his historical characters make brief but significant appearances. The hero or heroine, and the other leading characters are fictitious. If the novel is to have Queen Elizabeth, Oliver Cromwell, or Prince Charles Stuart in it, Scott will ensure that the scenes where they appear are brief, intense, and self-contained. In Waverley the focus on history is comparably treated. The subtitle indicates the period at which the novel is set. Beyond that, time is only vaguely indicated during the first two volumes. Waverley leaves Waverley-Honour to join the army in Scotland in the Autumn of 1744 (pp. 4-5, 22). ‘The arrival of summer’ caused him to visit Tully-Veolan (p. 31). When the Jacobite army gathered in King's Park, Edinburgh, ‘the autumn was now waning, and the nights beginning to be frosty’ (p. 212). The famous dates of the summer of 1745 are not mentioned: Prince Charles raised his standard at Glenfinnan on 19 August and entered Edinburgh on 17 September. The dating in the novel is perhaps too reticent for those who do not know the succession of events in the '45; slight hints are enough for those who do. The battle of Prestonpans is described in detail at the end of volume II, and the historicity of it is stressed by the mention of the first of a series of dates marking the Jacobite campaign of the autumn of 1745 (p. 239).⁵ The Jacobites began their march into England ‘about the beginning of November’ (p. 263); the retreat was determined upon on 5 December (p. 274); and the skirmish at Clifton occurred on 18 December (p. 274). From then on there are only slight indications of time passing, and that time is passed in the story of Edward Waverley. It is only incidentally and without dates that we hear of the events of 1746, the battle of Falkirk (17 January) and Culloden (16 April). Waverley needs time to make the sober reflections which are part of his growing-up process; but that time cannot be measured against the stern calendar of 1746. In the novel, history and romance come together for the second half of 1745. After that, history recedes into the background and there are no specific time references. The time at the end of the novel is personal time, not historic time. At its end the novel moves out of the orbit of history, and many readers have made no demur.

What I have referred to as the end of the novel starts at volume III, chapter 23. It is the chapter after the death of Fergus Mac-Ivor and it starts with a passage of transition from history to romance, and from content to closure:

The impression of horror with which Waverley left Carlisle, softened by degrees into melancholy, a gradation which was accelerated by the painful, yet soothing, task of writing to Rose; and, while he could not suppress his own feelings of the calamity, by endeavouring to place it in a light which might grieve her, without shocking her imagination. The picture which he drew for her benefit he gradually familiarized to his own mind, and his next letters were more cheerful, and referred to the prospects of peace and happiness which lay before them.

(p. 329)

This is a short history of survival. Without going fully into the delicate distinction that Scott makes in the words ‘which might grieve her, without shocking her imagination’, it could be said that the death of Fergus is described in a way to make it endurable. The description intended for Rose is then adopted by Waverley himself. The placing of the passage seems to indicate that the reader is invited to accept it too.

I have tried to describe some ways in which the end of Waverley might be read. One cannot do so, however, without reflecting on just what historical event it was that Scott subordinated at the end of the novel, the battle of Culloden.

Scott's own views are well enough known. He declared himself to have been ‘a valiant Jacobite at the age of ten years old’.⁶ In his autobiographical fragment he wrote, after mentioning Culloden: ‘One or two of our own distant relations had fallen on that occasion, and I remember detesting the name of Cumberland [the Hanoverian commander] with more than infant hatred.’⁷ In adult life his judgement ‘inclined for the public weal to the present succession’, but he never swore the oaths required of magistrates, which involved ‘abjuring the Pretender’, without ‘a qualm of conscience’.⁸ In his fiction, Waverley is the nearest he ever came to writing about the battle of Culloden. Of his other Jacobite novels, Rob Roy (1817) is set earlier in the century; Redgauntlet (1824) and “The Highland Widow” (1827) later. He did, however, write about Culloden in his non-fiction, in two reviews⁹ and in the history of Scotland which he wrote for his grandson, Tales of a Grandfather.

Despite the fact that it was ‘Sixty Years Since’ (almost seventy by the date of publication) the '45 was not an easy matter to treat in a novel. The reviewer for The Antijacobin Review noted that ‘the writer takes upon himself a task of peculiar delicacy, and attended with peculiar difficulty.’ The delicacy was caused by the possibility of a lingering sensitivity to the political loyalties displayed in the novel. The reviewer congratulates the novelist:

The author, however, has performed this difficult task with considerable skill and ability, steering clear of every thing which could give offence to the reigning family, and yet not disgracing himself by the sacrifice of truth, or by the abject servility of a time-serving parasite.¹⁰

By the time Scott wrote, various ways of referring to the '45 had been established. Whig rejoicing at the removal of the threat to the Hanoverian succession had been countered by the development of the Jacobite lyric, to which Burns made a distinguished contribution, in which the defeated Prince is described in the highly-charged language of love-poetry.¹¹ In Waverley, Scott side-steps this tradition: he presents a picture of the Jacobite claimant which is both sympathetic and astringent. The novel is not Jacobite in the political sense: it does not wish for a different monarch nor does it romanticise the dispossessed heir. The much-romanticised escape of the Prince after Culloden is alluded to only in the briefest manner in Waverley (p. 325). The way that the battle of Culloden was described in the late eighteenth century depended on the politics of the writer. To illustrate one can compare the Whig travel writer, Thomas Pennant, and the Tory, Samuel Johnson. Here is Pennant describing his visit to Culloden: ‘Passed over Culloden Moor, the place that North Britain owes its present prosperity to, by the victory of April 16, 1746.’¹² After a reference to the aftermath of the battle he remarks: ‘But let a veil be flung over a few excesses consequential of a day, productive of so much benefit to the united kingdoms.’ Johnson's travel book about Scotland was written partly in answer to Pennant. In his reflections on the condition of the Highlanders in 1773, the year of his tour, he sees them as a conquered people: ‘Their pride has been crushed by the heavy hand of a vindictive conqueror’.¹³ Yet his references to Culloden itself are reticent. Restraint, almost silence, is perceptible in both Johnson and Scott when writing of the battle which signalised the change they record in Highland society. There is in the work of both writers then and now, and reticence over what caused the difference between them.

This sense of a watershed is present in Scott's Jacobite works which are set after 1745. In both Redgauntlet and “The Highland Widow” there are indomitable characters who seek to deny the realities of the post-Culloden world; in both works, the younger generation has to try to come to terms with the world as it is. A momentous event in the past divides the generations. In Waverley, Scott's first novel, he came dangerously near to that event to which he elsewhere only alludes. When he took Jacobite subject-matter in later works he distanced it so that he merely had to indicate a source in the past of grief and dispossession, one which is the more powerful for being indicated rather than specified.

Culloden is Scott's watershed. And it is largely absent from his fiction. In Waverley, Scott presents a pre-Culloden view of the Highlands. Reviewers noticed that, and appreciated it.¹⁴ They too did not allude to what had destroyed this world. The reader of Waverley is not simply reading about a society outside his or her experience; but a society that once was and no longer is. The novel is reticent about the battle of Culloden, but because of the vantage point of narrator and reader sixty or more years later, the silence is eloquent. It is out of the silence, and the gap in time, that the subject-matter comes, the loss of a culture. The unspoken in Waverley is heavy with mythical significance.

Waverley was published in 1814. Romanticism is frequently described as giving renewed value to traditional cultures. Scott in Waverley portrayed the paradigmatic destroyed culture. He presented Highland Scotland to our consciousness as Troy had been to the classical world: as the value-charged place which was destroyed. Scott's contribution to the modern consciousness was to write what hostile commentators present as a small rebellion-turned-civil-war as a modern myth. It was the story of the Europe of the Napoleonic wars, and is the story in perhaps all the continents in the modern world, where the history of the dominant culture is written on top of the unwritten histories of the smaller cultures it defeated. I started by suggesting that the question of the battle of Culloden depended on how we read a historical novel. I suggest now that it is a matter of how the novel reads the modern world. The ‘absent’ battle of Culloden is the fact that is most centrally present in Waverley.

Notes

1. Walter Scott, Tales of a Grandfather, 3rd series (Edinburgh, 1830), vols II and III; John Prebble, Culloden (London, 1961); Bruce Lenman, The Jacobite Risings in Britain 1689-1746 (London, 1980); Jeremy Black, Culloden and the '45, (Stroud, 1990).

2. Walter Scott, Waverley; or, 'Tis Sixty Years Since, ed. Claire Lamont (Oxford, 1981), p. 4; hereafter by page references in the text.

3. Wolfgang Iser, The Implied Reader: Patterns of Communication in Prose Fiction from Bunyan to Beckett (Baltimore and London, 1974), p. 98.

4. Iser, p. xii.

5. The date is given as ‘the 20th’. The battle of Prestonpans was fought early on the morning of 21 September 1745. Scott's error probably arose from a sentence in the book he was consulting for the details of the battle, John Home, The History of the Rebellion in the year 1745 (London, 1802), p. 112. It is curious that Scott does not give the month, which was September; presumably an oversight, unless he expected his reader to know it or thought the reference to frosty autumn weather told all that was needed.

6. In a letter to Robert Surtees, 17 December, 1806: The Letters of Sir Walter Scott, ed. H. J. C. Grierson (London, 1932-7), Letters 1787-1808, p. 343.

7. J. G. Lockhart, Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart. (Edinburgh, 1837-8), I, 18.

8. In a letter to Margaret Clephane, 13 July, 1813: Letters 1811-1814, pp. 302-3.

9. In his reviews of The Culloden Papers and of The Life and Works of John Home in The Quarterly Review, XIV, 1816, and XXXVI, 1827.

10. The Antijacobin Review, XLVII (1814), p. 218.

11. William Donaldson, The Jacobite Song: Political Myth and National Identity (Aberdeen, 1988).

12. Thomas Pennant, A Tour in Scotland MDCCLXIX (London, 1771), p. 158.

13. Samuel Johnson, A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland, ed. Mary Lascelles (Yale Edition of the Works of Samuel Johnson, New Haven, 1971), p. 89.

14. E.g., the reviewer in the British Critic, ns II (1814), pp. 189-211; and Francis Jeffrey in the Edinburgh Review, XXIV (1814), pp. 208-43; both reprinted in John O. Hayden, Scott: The Critical Heritage (London, 1970), pp. 68-9 and 80.