This was the source whence Sir Walter derived his strong bias for the hapless Stuart race. "Marmion" is undoubtedly Scott's finest poem-his masterpiece in verse. It is the noblest chivalrous romance in our language and almost a great poem. Every canto has an attraction of its own. Nevertheless, it was concerning this very poem that the unblushing Jeffrey, in the Edinburgh Review, made this impudent remark: "There is scarcely one trait of true Scottish nationality or patriotism introduced into the whole poem; and Mr. Scott's only expression of admiration for the beautiful country to which he belongs is put, if we rightly remember, into the mouth of one of his Southern favorites." What an audacious statement, and how untrue! To the year 1808 also belongs the edition of "The Works of John Dryden," which was published in eighteen volumes, and was the labor of three years.

The success of "Marmion" gave birth to "The Lady of the Lake," which appeared in June, 1810:

"One venturous game my hand has won to-day;

Another, gallants, yet remains to play."

Its sale far exceeded that of any other of his poems. He received over two thousand guineas for it-just about two thousand guineas more than Milton got for two editions of his "Paradise Lost." This, his third great poem, is almost universally regarded as the most beautiful of the series. Its incidents occur among the beauties of the Western Highlands of Perthshire, amid the picturesque scenery of Loch Katrine, of Loch Lomond (which tradition alleges has "fish without fins, waves without wind and a floating island," and whose description, as Frank Osbaldistone writes to his friend Will

Thresham in "Rob Roy," can hardly be comprehended without going to see it) and of the fairy-like Trosachs, in which, as of ancient Greece, it is no poetic hyperbole to say that "not a mountain rears its head unsung." "The Lady of the Lake" caused a rush of tourists to these Perthshire Highlands, which has not ceased to this day. The success of the poem was instantaneous; it was lauded alike by contemporaneous author and critic, and even Francis Jeffrey so far departed from his wonted custom as to predict for it a wider circle of readers than either of Scott's former poems. The stag chase was written on the spot where it is supposed to have taken place, and its description alone fully merited the compliment of Byron that Scott was indeed the possessor of "powers that mock the aid of praise." I have seen American tourists both at Inversnaid and on the Lochs Lomond and Katrine, with this poem in their hands, seeking to discover, as they read, the enchanted spots so vividly portrayed. It is a veritable poetic guide book.

"The Vision of Don Roderick" followed in July, 1811, the year in which Scott received his clerkship of the Court of Session. It was founded on a Spanish tradition, and the profits accruing from its sale were generously devoted by the poet to the relief of the Portuguese rendered destitute by the campaign of Massena.

In May, 1812, Scott removed to what was then known as "Clarty Hole," which he purchased for £4,000, one-half whereof was borrowed from his brother, and the other half he obtained on the security of an unwritten poem. Rebaptized to Abbotsford, and so named by Scott on account of its former possession by the Abbots of Melrose, it was from this

"Gothic romance in stone and mortar" that Scott issued and published, in July of the following year, his "Rokeby," a story of the Civil War and of the events which succeeded the battle of Marston Moor, fought in July, 1664. "Rokeby's" success, though spoiled by the "Giaour" of Byron, which was published in the same year, and in a presentation copy of which its author called Scott "the true monarch of Parnassus," was nevertheless conspicuous; but Scott had attained the zenith of his fame as a poet with "The Lady of the Lake," and from "Rokeby" to "The Lord of the Isles" his poetry was like a falling star.

In 1813 likewise appeared "The Bridal of Triermain, or The Vale of St. John." "A Lover's Tale," as its title denotes, it was published anonymously with the intention of deceiving the merciless and ubiquitous Jeffrey, and in August of the same year, Scott, acting under the advice of his kinsman, the Duke of Buccleugh, refused the poet-laureateship, "even this, the very least of Providence's mercies," as he described it, proffered to him. But pride, Scott's greatest characteristic trait, was alone sufficient to make him decline the honor, and at his suggestion Southey was installed into the place.

The publication, in January, 1815, of "The Lord of the Isles," which title had been substituted for that of "The Nameless Glen," first proposed, was the final act in Scott's poetical career. Resembling in more respects than its eight syllabled verse "The Bruce" of John Barbour, which, was written about the year 1376, it is a picture of the Western Highlands of Scotland, with a hero who has a remarkable talent for falling in love with every fair lady he meets, and the poem is replete with splendid ballads. Its sale fell short of even that of

"Rokeby," and it closed Scott's poetic labors. Two years later-in 1817-he indeed gave to the world his anonymous "Harold the Dauntless,' by the author of 'The Bridal of Triermain,'" which added nothing to his fame as a poet, and concerning which he afterward wrote: "I am astonished at my having committed the gross error of selecting the very name which Lord Byron had made so famous." But Scott's poetical powers had been so obviously on the wane that when, in October, 1815, he wrote, for the benefit of the widows and orphans of those soldiers who had fallen in battle, "The Feld of Waterloo," its execution, notwithstanding its magnificent panegyric of the Duke of Wellington, was sufficiently clumsy to warrant the judgment that "Walter Scott fell on the field of Waterloo." There was another, yet, perchance, not a very substantial reason why he should abandon poetry, and it was none other than the appearance of a brighter star. That star That star was George Gordon, Lord Byron, "a rival," as Scott says, "not in poetical powers only, but in that art of attracting popularity in which the present writer had hitherto preceded better men than himself." Scott saw and appreciated the meteoric genius of the author of "Childe Harold,” and in his own words "there would have been little wisdom in measuring my force with so formidable an antagonist, and I was as likely to tire of playing the second fiddle in the concert as my audience of hearing me."

So ended the career of Sir Walter Scott as a poet, but, were I thus to dismiss a necessarily meager account of it without some reference to the many fine ballads and songs which are interspersed and glitter like diamonds throughout his works, I should hold myself guilty, even

in this brief sketch, of gross omission; for among them are gems set in purest gold, equaling those of Byron and of Moore. "The Pirate" is as full of such brilliant gems as the milky way is of stars. What schoolboy is unfamiliar with Lady Heron's Song, and has not wished himself a "young Lochinvar," that, with "one touch of her hand and one word in her ear," he might bear off on fleetest steed a bride from Nethersby Hall? To the sprightly music of "Bonnie Dundee❞ many a British soldier has

rushed to glory or the grave. Rebecca's hymn

"When Israel, of the Lord beloved,
Out from the land of bondage came,"
finds a place in many a book of praise,
and the Hymn to the Virgin-

"Ave Maria! Maiden mild!
Listen to a maiden's prayer;
Thou canst hear, though from the wild,
Thou canst save amid despair!"

ranks among the most perfect specimens of poetry in the English language.

My neighbors and I lived in thatched. cottages. Architecture, style and outer adornment were unknown. Our forefathers deemed a "but" and a "ben" amply sufficient in which to rear their hardy and noble sons. And so if our homes belonged not to the Ruskin order, we were amply compensated for any loss. in this respect by the hand of Nature, for she had lavishly arrayed every mountain and vale around us, in magnificent beauty. Dunshillock, a long row of houses, lay in one of the most peaceful and beautiful valleys in the north of Scotland. On our left rested the beautiful village of Mintland, with its wellkept hedges, and sweet little garden plots, while on our right was situated the ancient and picturesque village of Old Deer, with its church, its school, and wellcrowded graveyard. Here the river Ugie

kissed the grassy slopes, as it wended its way to empty itself into the North Sea, which washes the rocks of the capital of Buchan. In front of us were the policies of Colonel Russel, which could only be viewed from a distance. Sacred were the environments of Aden House, and no mean step was allowed to pass the gateway; yet, as boys, and with all our boyish inquisitiveness and love of adventure, we often stole along the avenues and up the gravelled walks till we could get a peep of the awe-inspiring mansion house. What profusion of trees, of shrubs and flowers, of tall poplars, and stately pines! What stretches of green sward, of lake and forest scenery, and all these to be viewed only by a few favorite eyes.

Behind us were the grounds and palatial home of Colonel Ferguson. His father, the old admiral, was generous and

large hearted, and his son, following in his footsteps, loved to share the beauties and the pleasures of his home. Here the gates were ever open, and here might be heard the gay laugh of the visitor, or the plaintive note of the lute. What a privilege, as we went to school, to tread our way by the lake, and flower gardens. What marvel that our after lives should be colored by scenes like these. And if to-day we stand gazing on some beautiful picture, or read some soul-inspiring poem, or listen to the rippling cadences of some sweet melody, shall we not by the association of ideas be carried back to these days of early childhood, when we loved to wander under the dome of blue, inhaling the perfume of flowers, and listening to the skylark pouring forth its morning song at the gate of heaven?

But we must not linger now amid those enchanting scenes, lest we be late for school, an offence which was sometimes amply rewarded. The school of Old Deer was a noted one. Robert Wilson was not only a graduate of Aberdeen University, but was a born teacher. His pupils took high rank in the pulpit, in medicine, and in law; or, indeed, wherever brains were an important factor. Scholars came from far and near,

but es

pecially were the neighboring villages well represented.

These were classified as in good old Bible times, into Mintlandites, Fetherangusites and Hillockites, on the one hand, and on the other were ranged the formidable Deerites, Crichieites and Mandites.

To a casual observer this division might seem unimportant, but to us, looking forward to the snow-balling season, it was of grave import. In the early winter, we chose our leaders. My brother Jim was appointed to take command of the Hillockites battalion, while Willie

Mitchell, of Crichie, was called to general the forces of the Deerites.

Both were old and tried veterans, and both carried the scars of many a fierce contest. Once again their powers were soon to be tested, for it had been snowing for a week, and every one knew that a heavy battle was impending. Slips of paper were passing under the seats. Waterloo was at hand. Scarcely had we left the school door, when a wild yell brought dismay to the younger members who had as yet not suffered the smoke of

war.

The Deerites massed quickly. On they came before we, the Hillockites, had time to concentrate. We were driven before them like some ship in full sail before a hurricane. "Steady at the forks," shouted our leader. Here, in the morning, we had piled up a huge heap of snowballs. and as it had been freezing all day, we knew our ammunition must be in fine trim. Here we halted. The Mintlandites took up their position on the right flank in the recess of a wall, while on the left flank, behind a hedge, with an open gap. stood the Angusites waiting for the fray. Our main body kept retreating till we got the enemy well up to the open of the triangle, then we wheeled suddenly round, and opened a tremendous volley of snow and ice.

Simultaneously the right and left flanks sent their balls spinning with well-directed aim that brought many a gallant fellow to the prone.

Fiercely the battle raged for about an hour when it was seen that the enemy began to reel and fall back. Just at this moment the Angusites, by a quick and rapid movement, intercepted them on the rear, and so cut off their retreat. Then what a mêlée ensued. So closely were we

Our ammunition had given out, and along the line was passed the order of both generals, "Nieves, boys, ilka man for himsel."

Then was the pure snow dyed with scarlet, and many a fair face was rendered less fair. When the battle had almost reached the climax, both generals met face to face; then it was that all minor operations were suspended. For either of them, we knew, it meant death or victory. They fought and still they fought when both fell exhausted. Darkness alone decided the issues of the fray, and left it a drawn battle Jim fully intended to walk the Crichie that night so that he might be able to hoist the flag of victory from the garden pole next day, but, mother, who knew the warrior well, told him to slip into the other room for some butter she wanted for the tea-table, quickly locked the door and put the key in her pocket. In a little while his wrath. abated. In the evening I heard father say: "Fars that loon been wi' sic a face?" "I'm thinking he'll dee fechtin' the Philistines," replied mother.

This was but one of our many winter battles, and although they were fierce enough when they lasted, yet, when gentle spring and flowery summer returned, friend and foe might be seen playing, fishing or gaming together. No malice, no resentment lurked within those youthful breasts. Of course, in war times, it was generally agreed that territory and rights must not be invaded. Just as Wallace hurled the English from the castles of Scotland, and Bruce planted the flag of liberty and freedom upon the plains of Bannockburn, so we too hurled all foes to their rightful domains. No invasion was ever to be tolerated. And so thus we

died, for wounds healed, and strifes were forgotten. In spring, we planted potatoes together, in summer the hay-field was all animation, in the autumn we gathered the golden grain into the garner, and finished up with the (meal-and-ale) harvest home where we tripped the "light fantastic toe" till the small hours of the morning. Sometimes the girls helped us in our outdoor work, and I doubt not but blue eyes and winning manners had much to do in softening the arts of war. Those were happy times. While I write, the landscape still lies before me. The green of the turnip and clover fields, the gold of the distant heather and the blue of the curling smoke from many a happy home, all seem to mix and mingle into a neverto-be-forgotten scene.

In the dim distance, too, might be seen the famous Abbey of Deer and away beyond the Druidical stones and circles where our ancient forefathers worshiped and prayed. Still they stand, like some lone sentinels, guarding with jealous care the history of the past.

However, the rest of hoary antiquity is broken, is broken, for now might be heard the screeching whistle of the locomotive and the dull rumbling of the railway cars. All is motion, and commotion, where once was silence and quietude. But so things. change, so we move from the past to the present, and so, alas, all too soon, the present becomes the past. The weeks soon glide into years, and soon our tale is told, our biography written. Yes, all too soon do our school days glide away, and so we pass from the morning to the noon of life, with its new battles, its new trials, its new temptations and also to its new joys, its new achievements and, perhaps, to its new victories.