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SIR WALTER SCOTT.

1771-1832.

WALTER SCOTT, a younger son of a writer to the signet, was born in Edinburgh. Some of the poet's earliest years were passed with his paternal grandfather at the farm of Sandy Knowe, near the village of Sınailholm in Roxburghshire. Here he acquired that taste for border lore and chivalric tradition which was so strongly developed in after life. In 1802-3 appeared his "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," with his own imitations of the old ballads, and in 1804 his edition of the romance of "Sir Tristrem," ascribed to Thomas the Rhymer of Ercildoune; these works procured for him high reputation as a literary antiquary. He threw his genius more boldly into the sphere of original poetry, in the composition of "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," a tale of Border warfare, illustrating the habits and superstitions of former centuries, and glorifying the ancestry of the Duke of Buccleuch, the chief of the clan Scott. Its publication in 1805 attracted universal and enthusiastic admiration. The theme and the style were so new and so original; the colors of forgotten phases of society were painted with such graphic splendor, that this metrical romance placed the author at once in the front rank of genius. The time was favorable for the experiment; the great poets of the nineteenth century had merely begun to sing, and, as Scott himself remarks, "The realms of Parnassus seemed to lie open to the first bold invader." "Marmion" appeared in 1808; in 1810, the "Lady of the Lake," illustrating the scenery and chivalry of the Highlands in the reign of James V.; these were followed by the "Vision of Don Roderic," "Rokeby," and, in 1814, "The Lord of the Isles." But Scott had reached his culminating point in his Highland poem. Byron's reputation was now paling

overy other fire; and the anonymous publication of the Bridal of Triermain," and "Harold the Dauntless," by wakening no feeling correspondent to his former renown, convinced Scott that he had sung too long. And now he penetrated that rich mine in prose fiction which seemed but the continuation of his poetical vein, and whose treasures astonished the world. For nearly fifteen years he continued anonymously in rapid succession the series of his novels, and the "Author of Waverley" became a profound speculation, the subject of three-volumed works. The secret, however, was faithfully kept; and, though universally suspected, the poet held his incognito till commercial misfortune forced its withdrawal. Besides his poetry and novels, his other literary labors are miraculous in amount. They consist of reviews, histories, biographies, annotated editions of great writers, &c.

The following beautiful allusion to an interview with Scott is from an oration by the Hon. Edward Everett :-"I have made my pilgrimage to Melrose Abbey, in company with that modern magician, who, mightier than the magician of old that sleeps beneath the marble floor of its chancel, has hung the garlands of immortal poesy upon its shattered arches, and made its moss-clad ruins a shrine, to be visited by the votary of the muse from the remotest corners of the earth, to the end of time. Yes, sir, musing as I did, in my youth, over the sepulchre of the wizard, once pointed out by the bloody stain of the cross and the image of the archangel:-standing within that consecrated enclosure, under the friendly guidance of him whose genius has made it holy ground; while every nerve within me thrilled with excitement, my fancy kindled with the inspiration of the spot. I seemed to behold, not the vision so magnificently described by the minstrel,-the light, which, as the tomb was opened,

broke forth so gloriously,

Streamed upward to the chancel roof,
And through the galleries far aloof:

but I could fancy that I beheld, with sensible perception, the brighter light, which had broken forth from the master mind; which had streamed from his illumined page all-gloriously upward, above the pinnacles of worldly grandeur, till it mingled its equal beams with that of the brightest constellations in the intellectual firmament of England"

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THE shades of eve come slowly down,
The woods are wrapt in deeper brown,
The owl awakens from her dell,
The fox is heard upon the fell;
Enough remains of glimmering light
To guide the wanderer's steps aright,

Yet not enough from far to show

His figure to the watchful foe.
With cautious step, and ear awake,

He climbs the crag and threads the brake;
And not the summer solstice, there,
Temper'd the midnight mountain air,

But every breeze, that swept the wold,
Benumb'd his drenched limbs with cold.

In dread, in danger, and alone,

Famish'd and chill'd, through ways unknown,
Tangled and steep, he journey'd on;
Till, as a rock's huge point he turn'd,
A watch-fire close before him burn'd.

Beside its embers red and clear,

Bask'd, in his plaid, a mountaineer;

And up he sprung with sword in hand,---"Thy name and purpose! Saxon, stand!"-"A stranger."-"What dost thou require?"-"Rest and a guide, and food and fire. My life's beset, my path is lost,

The gale has chill'd my limbs with frost." "Art thou a friend to Roderick ?"-"No."— "Thou darest not call thyself a foe?"—

"I dare! to him and all the band

He brings to aid his murderous hand." "Bold words!-but, though the beast of game

The privilege of chase may claim,

Though space and law the stag we lend,
Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend,
Whoever reck'd, where, how, or when,
The prowling fox was trapp'd or slain?
Thus treacherous scouts,-yet sure they lie,
Who say thou camest a secret spy!"-
"They do, by Heaven!-Come Roderick Dhu,
And of his clan the boldest two,
And let me but till morning rest,

I write the falsehood on their crest."
"If by the blaze I mark aright,

Thou bear'st the belt and spur of Knight."

"Then by these tokens mayst thou know

Each proud oppressor's mortal foe."

Enough, enough; sit down and share

A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare."

He gave him of his Highland cheer,
The harden'd flesh of mountain deer;
Dry fuel on the fire he laid,
And bade the Saxon share his plaid.
He tended him like welcome guest,
Then thus his further speech address'd
"Stranger, I am to Roderick Dhu,
A clansman born, a kinsman true;
Each word against his honor spoke,
Demands of me avenging stroke;

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