father, who was a great admirer of John Knox, used to tell us of popish indulgences; folks who are the Ton may do any thing they like without being in the wrong, and every thing that is the Ton is right, let it be what it will.

Alas! sir, if the Ton would let poor people alone who don't wish for distinction, there would be the less to complain of; but the misfortune is, that one must be in the Ton whether one's mind gives them to it or not; at least I am told so. We have a French friseur, whom our maitre d'hôtel Sabot recommended, who makes great use of this phrase. He screwed up my hair till I thought I should have fainted with the pain, and I did not sleep a wink all the night after, because he said that a hundred little curls were now become the Ton. He recommended a shoemaker, who, he said, made for all the people of the Ton, who pinched my toes till I could hardly walk across the room, because little feet were the Ton. My staymaker, another of the same set, brought me home a pair of stays that were but a few inches round at the waist, and my maid and Sabot broke three laces before they could get them to meet, because small waists were the Ton. I sat at two dinners without being able to eat a morsel, because (I am ashamed to tell it, sir) my stays would not hold a bit. However, I would submit to the Ton no longer in that article, and when I got home in the evening, I took out my scissors in a passion and cut a great slash in the sides. I was resolved I would not be squeezed to death for all the Ton in the world.

And, moreover, the Ton is not satisfied with tearing the hair out of our heads, with pinching our feet, and squeezing the pit of our stomach, but we must have manners which, under favor, sir, I think very odd, and which my grandmother (I was bred up at my grandmother's) would have whipped me for, that she would, if I had ventured to show them when I was with her. I am told that none but a ninny would look down in the sheepish way I do; but that, when I meet a gentleman in our walks, I must look as full at him as I can, to show my eyes, and laugh, to show my teeth, (all our family have white teeth,) and flourish my ratteen to show my shapes. And though in a room, I am to speak as low and mumbling as I can, to look as if I did not care whether I was heard or not; yet in a public place I am to talk as loud and as fast as possible, and call the men by their plain surnames, and tell all about our last night's parties, and a great many other things, Mr. Lounger, which I can't do for the heart of me; but my sister-in-law comes on amazingly, as Miss Gusto says. But then she has been in India, and she was not brought up with my grandmother. I protest, though I would be ashamed to let Miss Gusto know it, that often, when I am wishing to practise some of her lessons, I think I see my grandmother with her bunch of keys at her apron-string, her amber-headed stick

in one hand and the Ladies' Calling in the other, looking at me from under her spectacles with such a frown, Mr. Lounger, it frightens me quite out of my head.

After all, I am apt to believe that the very great trouble and the many inconveniences to which we put ourselves to attain this distinction of the Ton, are, in a great measure, labor in vain; that our music, our dancing, and our good-breeding will perhaps be out of fashion before we have come to any degree of perfection in all or any of these accomplishments, for some of the fine ladies and fine gentlemen who visit us say that the Ton here is no Ton at all, for that the true and genuine Ton (like the true and genuine Milk of Roses) is only to be found in London. Nay, some of the finest of those fine ladies and gentlemen go a step farther, and inform us that the Ton of London itself is mere Twaddle, and that the only right Ton is to be found in Paris. I hope in goodness, however, that my sister, if she is determined, as she sometimes hints, to chase the Ton that length, will drop me by the way, or rather allow me to return again to the country. Old sparrows (the proverb says, Mr. Lounger) are ill to tame. Not that I am old, neither; but I believe I am not quite young enough to learn to be happy in the sort of life we lead here; and though I try all I can to think it a happy one, and I am sure to say so in every place to which we go, yet I can't help often secretly wishing I were back again at my father's, where I should not be obliged to be happy whether I would

or not.

Your afflicted, (if I may venture to say so,) humble servant, MARJORY MUSHROOM.

WALTER SCOTT, 1771-1832.

THIS illustrious author, the son of Walter Scott, who was a Writer to the Signet' in the Scottish capital, was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of August, 1771. He received the chief portion of his school education at the High-school of Edinburgh, then under the care of the celebrated Dr. Adam; but, during the four years that he remained there, he does not appear to have displayed any remarkable abilities, excepting for tale-telling, in which he excelled. "The chief em

ployment of my holidays" (says he, in the general introduction to his novels) 'was to escape with a chosen friend, who had the same taste with myself, and alternately to recite to each other such wild adventures as we were able to devise."

The signet is one of the king's seals used in sealing his private letters and all grants signed under his hand. It is always in the custody of the Secretaries of State. "A Writer to the Signet" is therefore one who holds an office in the department of State.

In October, 1783, he entered the University of Edinburgh, and left it in a year or two, without having added much to his stock of classical knowledge. At the age of fifteen, the breaking of a blood-vessel brought on an illness, which, to use bis own words, "threw him back on the kingdom of fiction, as if by a species of fatality." Being for some time forbidden to speak or move, he did nothing but read from morning till night; and, by a perusal of old romances, old plays, and epic poetry, was unconsciously amassing materials for his future writings.

In his sixteenth year he commenced studying for the bar, and became an apprentice to his father. In 1792, he became an advocate; but he had no taste for the law; and, as his father was in affluent circumstances, he resolved to devote himself to literary pursuits. In 1797, he married Miss Margaret Carpenter, the daughter of a French refugee, and soon after took a house at Lasswade, on the banks of the Tweed. In 1802, appeared his first publication of any note, "The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," in two volumes, which displayed much curious and abstruse learning, and gained the author a considerable reputation as an historical and traditionary poet. In 1803, he came to the final resolution of quitting his profession, observing, "there was no great love between us at the beginning, and it pleased Heaven to decrease it on farther acquaintance." In 1805, he published "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," which was composed at the rate of a canto per week, and for which he obtained six hundred pounds. In 1808, appeared his "Marmion," which he sold for one thousand pounds, the extraordinary success of which induced him, he says, for the first and last time of his life, to feel something approaching to vanity. This was succeeded by an edition of Dryden's works, in eighteen volumes, with notes historical and explanatory, and a life of the author. In 1810, he composed his "Lady of the Lake," which had extraordinary success, and which has been characterized by some as the finest specimen of his poetical genius. Within four years after this, appeared his "Vision of Don Roderick," "Rokeby," and "The Lord of the Isles." These, however, did not meet with the success which attended his former poems.

But, determined to continue his literary career, he resolved to try his powers in the composition of fictitious prose writings, and in 1814 appeared "Waverley, or 'Tis Sixty Years Since," a tale of the rebellion of 1745. Though it had not the name of its distinguished author attached to it, it soon rose to great popularity He now had fairly entered upon the field in which he earned triumphs even more splendid than he had gained in the domain of poetry. "Waverley" was followed within a few years by that brilliant series of prose fictions which made the "Great Unknown," as he was called, the wonder of the age. From 1815 to 1819 appeared, successively, "Guy Mannering," "The Antiquary," and the first series of the "Tales of My Landlord," containing the "Black Dwarf" and "Old Mortality;" "Rob Roy," and the second series of the "Tales of My Landlord," containing "The Heart of Mid Lothian ;" and the third series, containing "The Bride of Lammermoor" and "A Legend of Montrose." In 1821,1

1 In 1820, say his biographers, "the honor of the baronetcy was conferred upon him by George IV.," just as if he did not honor the "baronetcy" for more than the "baronetcy" honored him. Such men as John Milton, Isaac Newton, William Shakspeare, and Walter Scott need no unmeauing titles to make them greater. Scott, however, was pleased with it. To have a title, and a large landed estate, was his great ambition.

appeared "Kenilworth," which was succeeded, successively, by "The Pirate," "The Fortunes of Nigel," "Peveril of the Peak," "Quentin Durward," "Tales of the Crusaders," &c.

The great success of all these works enabled Scott to carry out the long-cherished object of his wishes-to possess a large baronial estate. In 1811, he purchased one hundred acres of land on the banks of the Tweed, near Melrose, for four thousand pounds, "and the interesting and now immortal name of Abbotsford was substituted for the very ordinary one of Cartley Hole." Other purchases of land followed, to a great extent, which, together with the noble mansion, cost more than fifty thousand pounds. In this princely mansion, the poet received for years, and entertained with bounteous hospitality, innumerable visitors-princes, peers, and poets-men of all ranks and grades. In the mean time, he entered into partnership with his old school-fellow, James Ballantyne, then rising into extensive business as a printer, in Edinburgh. The copartnership was kept a secret, and to all appearance the house of Ballantyne & Co. was doing a most prosperous business. Little did he dream what sad reverses awaited him-how soon his all was to be swept away

"Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,

That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey."

In the great commercial distresses of 1825 and 1826, his publishers, Constable & Co., stopped payment, and the failure of the firm of Ballantyne, for a very large sum, followed instantly, and thus these two firms involved Scott to the amount of more than one hundred thousand pounds. But these immense losses did not dishearten him. If he had been imprudent in forming such connections, most nobly and courageously did he come forward, and insist that he would not be dealt with as an ordinary bankrupt, and pledge himself that the labor of his future life should be unremittingly devoted to the discharge of his debts. He did more than fulfil his noble promise; but the gigantic toil to which, during years after this, he submitted, was the immediate cause that shortened his life. His self-sacrifice realized for his creditors, between January, 1826, and January, 1828, the surprising sum of forty thousand pounds; and soon after his death the principal of the whole Ballantyne debt was paid up by his executors. Language fails to express the honor and glory of such an act of moral heroism and severe integrity. It has encircled the brow of Sir Walter Scott with greener laurels than all the works of poetry and fiction he ever wrote.2

"It is very hard," was his observation to a friend on the occasion, "thus to lose all the labors of a lifetime, and be made a poor man at last, when I ought to have been otherwise. But if God grant me health and strength for a few years longer, I have no doubt that I shall redeem it all."

2 English literature presents two memorable and striking events, which have never been paralleled in any other nation. The first is Milton, advanced in years, blind, and in misfortune, entering upon the composition of a great epic that was to determine bis future fame, and hazard the glory of his country in competition with what had been achieved in the classic ages of antiquity. The counterpart to this noble picture is Walter Scott, at nearly the same age, his private affairs in ruin, undertaking to liquidate, by intellectual labors alone, a debt of one hundred and seventeen thousand pounds. Both tasks may be classed with the moral sublime of life. Glory, pure and unsullied, was the ruling aim and motive of Milton; honor and integrity formed the incentives to Scott. Neither shrunk from the steady prosecution of his gigantic, self-imposed labor. But years rolled on, seasons returned and passed away, amid public cares and private calamity, and the pressure of increasing infirmities, ere the sced cown amid clouds and storms was white in the field. In six years

In 1826, our author removed from Abbotsford to Edinburgh, and entered vigorously upon his renewed labors. "Woodstock," the first and second series of the "Chronicles of the Canongate," "Anne of Geierstein," the first, second, and third series of "Tales of My Grandfather," the "Life of Napoleon," in nine volumes, octavo, followed in rapid succession. But these great labors were too much for him. In 1830, he had an attack of paralysis; yet he continued to write several hours every day. In April, 1831, he suffered a still more severe attack, and he was prevailed upon to undertake a foreign tour. He sailed for Malta and Naples, and resided at the latter place from December, 1831, to the following April. The next month he set his face toward home, and reached London on the 12th of June. He was conveyed to Abbotsford, the perfect wreck in body and mind of what he once was. "He desired," says Mr. Lockhart, "to be wheeled through his rooms, and we moved him leisurely for an hour or more up and down the hall and the great library. I have seen much,' he kept saying, 'but nothing like my ain house: give me one turn more.' He was gentle as an infant, and allowed himself to be put to bed again, the moment we told him that we thought he had enough for one day. * He expressed a wish that I should read

to him; and when I asked from what book, he said, 'Need you ask? there is but one.' I chose the 14th chapter of St. John's Gospel. When near his end, he said, 'Lockhart, I may have but a minute to speak to you: my dear, be a good man; be virtuous, be religious; be a good man. Nothing else will give you comfort when you come to lie here.' He paused, and I said, Shall I send for Sophia and Anne? 'No,' said he; 'don't disturb them. Poor souls! I know they were up all night-God bless you all;'-with this he sank into a very tranquil sleep. But the contest was soon to be over. About half-past one, P. M., on the 21st of September, 1832, Sir Walter breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day-so warm that every window was wide open-and so perfectly still, that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around nis bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes."

It now remains to speak of the character of the writings of this most gifted genius and prolific author. With respect to his poetry, truth compels us to say that, taking it as a whole, we cannot join its few ardent admirers. Neither, on the other hand, can we go so far as Hazlitt, who sets Scott down as "a mere nar

Milton had realized the object of his hopes and prayers by the completion of 'Paradiso Lost. His task was done; the field of glory was gained; he held in his hand his passport to immortality. In six years Scott had nearly reached the goal of his ambition. He had ranged the wide fields of romance, and the public had liberally rewarded their illustrious favorite. The ultimate prize was within view, and the world cheered him on, eagerly anticipating his triumph; but the victor sank exhausted on the course. He had spent his life in the struggle. The strong man was bowed down, and his living honor, genius, and inte grity were extinguished by delirium and death."-CHAMBERS's Cyclopædia.

1 St. James's Hotel, No. 76 Jermyn Street, on the south side, was the last London lodging of Sir Walter Scott. Here he lay for a period of three weeks after his return from the continent, either in absolute stupor or in a waking dream. The room he occupied was the second-floor back room, and the author of this collection of London memoranda delights in remembering the universal feeling of sympathy exhibited by all (and there were many there) who stood to see the great novelist and poet carried from the hotel to his carriage on the afternoon of the 7th of July, 1832. Many were eager to see so great a man, but al mere curiosity seemed to cease when they saw the vacant eye and prostrate figure of the illustrious poet. There was not a covered head; and the writer believes-from what he could see-hardly a dry eye upon the occasion."-CUNNINGHAM, Hand-Book of London, p. 265.