But 'tis an old belief,

That on some solemn shore, Beyond the sphere of grief,

Dear friends will meet once more.

Beyond the sphere of time,

And sin, and fate's control, Serene in changeless prime Of body and of soul.

That creed I fain would keep,
That hope I'll not forgo;

Eternal be the sleep,
Unless to waken so.

The Cid and the Leper.

He has ta'en some twenty gentlemen along with him to go, For he will pay that ancient vow he to Saint James doth

owe;

To Compostella, where the shrine doth by the altar stand, The good Rodrigo de Bivar is riding through the land.

Where'er he goes, much alms he throws, to feeble folk and poor;

Beside the way for him they pray, him blessings to procure;
For, God and Mary Mother, their heavenly grace to win,
His hand was ever bountiful: great was his joy therein.

And there, in middle of the path, a leper did appear;
In a deep slough the leper lay-none would to help come

near.

With a loud voice he thence did cry, 'For God our Saviour's sake,

From out this fearful jeopardy a Christian brother take.'—

When Roderick heard that piteous word, he from his horse came down ;

For all they said, no stay he made, that noble champion ; He reached his hand to pluck him forth, of fear was no account,

Then mounted on his steed of worth, and made the leper

mount.

Behind him rode the leprous man; when to their hostelrie

They came, he made him eat with him at table cheerfully; While all the rest from that poor guest with loathing shrank away,

To his own bed the wretch he led, beside him there he lay.

All at the mid-hour of the night, while good Rodrigo slept, A breath came from the leprous man, it through his shoulders crept ;

Right through the body, at the breast, passed forth that breathing cold;

I wot he leaped up with a start, in terrors manifold.
He groped for him in the bed, but him he could not find,
Through the dark chamber groped he, with very anxious
mind;

Loudly he lifted up his voice, with speed a lamp was brought,

Yet nowhere was the leper seen, though far and near they sought.

He turned him to his chamber, God wot, perplexed sore With that which had befallen-when lo! his face before, There stood a man, all clothed in vesture shining white: Thus said the vision, 'Sleepest thou, or wakest thou, Sir Knight?'

'I sleep not,' quoth Rodrigo; but tell me who art thou, For, in the midst of darkness, much light is on thy brow?'

'I am the holy Lazarus; I come to speak with thee; I am the same poor leper thou sav'dst for charity.

'Not vain the trial, nor in vain thy victory hath been; God favours thee, for that my pain thou didst relieve yestreen.

There shall be honour with thee, in battle and in peace, Success in all thy doings, and plentiful increase.

'Strong enemies shall not prevail thy greatness to undo; Thy name shall make men's cheeks full pale-Christians and Moslem too;

A death of honour shalt thou die, such grace to thee is given,

Thy soul shall part victoriously, and be received in heaven.'

When he these gracious words had said, the spirit vanished quite;

Rodrigo rose and knelt him down -he knelt till morning light:

Unto the Heavenly Father, and Mary Mother dear, He made his prayer right humbly, till dawned the morning clear.

The Wandering Knight's Song.

'My ornaments are arms,
My pastime is in war,

My bed is cold upon the wold,
My lamp yon star :

My journeyings are long,
My slumbers short and broken;
From hill to hill I wander still,
Kissing thy token.

"I ride from land to land,

I sail from sea to sea;

Some day more kind I fate may find, Some night kiss thee.'

The Abbotsford Hunt.

The other 'superior occasion' came later in the season; the 28th of October, the birthday of Sir Walter's eldest son, was, I think, that usually selected for the Abbotsford Hunt. This was a coursing-field on a large scale, including, with as many of the young gentry as pleased to attend, all Scott's personal favourites among the yeomen and farmers of the surrounding country. The Sheriff always took the field, but latterly devolved the command upon his good friend Mr John Usher, the ex-laird of Toftfield; and he could not have had a more skilful or a better-humoured lieutenant. The hunt took place either on the moors above the Cauldshields Loch, or over some of the hills on the estate of Gala, and we had commonly, ere we returned, hares enough to supply the wife of every farmer that attended with soup for a week following. The whole then dined at Abbotsford, the Sheriff in the chair, Adam Fergusson croupier, and Dominie Thomson, of course, chaplain. George, by the way, was himself an eager partaker in the preliminary sport; and now he would favour us with a grace, in Burns's phrase, 'as long as my arm,' beginning with thanks to the Almighty, who had given man dominion over the fowls of the air and the beasts of the field, and expatiating on this text with so luculent a commentary that Scott, who had been

fumbling with his spoon long before he reached his Amen, could not help exclaiming as he sat down, 'Well done, Mr George! I think we've had everything but the view holla!' The company, whose onset had been thus deferred, were seldom, I think, under thirty in number, and sometimes they exceeded forty. The feast was such as suited the occasion-a baron of beef, roasted, at the foot of the table, a salted round at the head, while tureens of hare-soup, hotchpotch, and cockey-leekie extended down the centre, and such light articles as geese, turkeys, entire sucking-pigs, a singed sheep's head, and the unfailing haggis were set forth by way of side-dishes. Blackcock and moorfowl, bushels of snipe, black puddings, white puddings, and pyramids of pancakes, formed the second Ale was the favourite beverage during dinner,

course.

JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

After the Portrait by Sir Francis Grant.

but there was plenty of port and sherry for those whose stomachs they suited. The quaighs of Glenlivet were filled brim-full, and tossed off as if they held water. The wine decanters made a few rounds of the table, but the hints for hot punch and toddy soon became clamorous. Two or three bowls were introduced, and placed under the supervision of experienced manufacturers-one of these being usually the Ettrick Shepherd-and then the business of the evening commenced in good earnest. The faces shone and glowed like those at Camacho's wedding; the chairman told his richest stories of old rural life, Lowland or Highland; Fergusson and humbler heroes fought their peninsular battles o'er again; the stalwart Dandie Dinmonts lugged out their last winter's snow-storm, the parish scandal perhaps, or the dexterous bargain of the Northumberland tryste; and every man was knocked down for the song that he sang best or took most pleasure in singing. Sheriff-Substitute Shortreed-a cheerful, hearty little man, with a sparkling eye and a most infec tious laugh-gave us 'Dick o' the Cow' or 'Now Liddesdale has ridden a raid;' his son Thomas (Sir Walter's assiduous disciple and assistant in Border Heraldry and Genealogy) shone without a rival in 'The Douglas

Tragedy' and 'The Twa Corbies;' a weather-beaten, stiff-bearded veteran, Captain Ormistoun, as he was called (though I doubt if his rank was recognised at the Horse-Guards), had the primitive pastoral of Cowdenknowes' in sweet perfection; Hogg produced 'The Women-folk,' or 'The Kye comes hame,' and, in spite of many grinding notes, contrived to make everybody delighted, whether with the fun or the pathos of his ballad; the Melrose doctor sang in spirited style some of Moore's masterpieces; a couple of retired sailors joined in Bould Admiral Duncan upon the high sea ;'-and the gallant croupier crowned the last bowl with Ale, good ale, thou art my darling!' Imagine some smart Parisian savant-some dreamy pedant of Halle or Heidelberg-a brace of stray young Lords from Oxford or Cambridge, or perhaps their prim college tutors, planted here and there amidst these rustic wassailers-this being their first vision of the author of Marmion and Ivanhoe, and he appearing as heartily at home in the scene as if he had been a veritable Dandie' himself-his face radiant, his laugh gay as childhood, his chorus always ready. And so it proceeded until some worthy, who had fifteen or twenty miles to ride home, began to insinuate that his wife and 'bairns would be getting sorely anxious about the fords, and the Dumples and Hoddins were at last heard neighing at the gate, and it was voted that the hour had come for doch an dorrach-the stirrup-cup-to wit, a bumper all round of the unmitigated mountain dew. How they all contrived to get home in safety, Heaven only knows-but I never heard of any serious accident except upon one occasion, when James Hogg made a bet at starting that he would leap over his wall-eyed pony as she stood, and broke his nose in this experiment of 'o'ervaulting ambition.' One comely goodwife, far off among the hills, amused Sir Walter by telling him, the next time he passed her homestead after one of these jolly doings, what her husband's first words were when he alighted at his own door-'Ailie, my woman, I'm ready for my bed -and oh lass (he gallantly added), I wish I could sleep for a towmont [twelvemonth], for there's only ae thing in this warld worth living for, and that 's the Abbotsford hunt!'

Death of Sir Walter Scott.

On Monday he remained in bed, and seemed extremely feeble; but after breakfast on Tuesday the 17th [July 1832] he appeared revived somewhat, and was again wheeled about on the turf. Presently he fell asleep in his chair, and after dozing for perhaps half-an-hour, started awake, and shaking the plaids we had put about him from off his shoulders, said-'This is sad idleness. I shall forget what I have been thinking of, if I don't set it down now. Take me into my own room, and fetch the keys of my desk.' He repeated this so earnestly that we could not refuse; his daughters went into his study, opened his writing-desk, and laid paper and pens in the usual order, and I then moved him through the hall and into the spot where he had always been accustomed to work. When the chair was placed at the desk, and he found himself in the old position, he smiled and thanked us, and said'Now give me my pen, and leave me for a little to myself.' Sophia put the pen into his hand, and he endeavoured to close his fingers upon it, but they refused their office-it dropped on the paper. He sank back among his pillows, silent tears rolling down his cheeks; but composing himself by-and-by, motioned to me to wheel him out of doors again. Laidlaw met us at the

porch, and took his turn of the chair. Sir Walter, after a little while, again dropped into slumber. When he was awaking, Laidlaw said to me-'Sir Walter has had a little repose.'-'No, Willie,' said he 'no repose for Sir Walter but in the grave.' The tears again rushed from his eyes. Friends,' said he, 'don't let me expose myself -get me to bed-that's the only place.'

With this scene ended our glimpse of daylight. Sir Walter never, I think, left his room afterwards, and hardly his bed, except for an hour or two in the middle of the day; and after another week he was unable even for this. During a few days he was in a state of painful irritation, and I saw realised all that he had himself prefigured in his description of the meeting between Crystal Croftangry and his paralytic friend. Dr Ross came out from Edinburgh, bringing with him his wife, one of the dearest nieces of the Clerks' table. Sir Walter with some difficulty recognised the Doctor; but, on hearing Mrs Ross's voice, exclaimed at once-'Isn't that Kate Hume?' These kind friends remained for two or three days with us. Clarkson's lancet was pronounced necessary, and the relief it afforded was, I am happy to say, very effectual.

After this he declined daily, but still there was great strength to be wasted, and the process was long. He seemed, however, to suffer no bodily pain, and his mind, though hopelessly obscured, appeared, when there was any symptom of consciousness, to be dwelling, with rare exceptions, on serious and solemn things; the accent of the voice grave, sometimes awful, but never querulous, and very seldom indicative of any angry or resentful thoughts. Now and then he imagined himself to be administering justice as Sheriff; and once or twice he seemed to be ordering Tom Purdie about trees. A few times also, I am sorry to say, we could perceive that his fancy was at Jedburgh, and 'Burk Sir Walter' escaped him in a melancholy tone. But commonly whatever we could follow him in was a fragment of the Bible (especially the Prophecies of Isaiah and the Book of Job) -or some petition in the litany or a verse of some psalm (in the old Scotch metrical version), or of some of the magnificent hymns of the Romish ritual, in which he had always delighted, but which probably hung on his memory now in connection with the Church services he had attended while in Italy. We very often heard distinctly the cadence of the Dies Ira; and I think the very last stanza that we could make out was the first of a still greater favourite :

'Stabat Mater dolorosa Juxta crucem lachrymosa, Dum pendebat Filius.'

All this time he continued to recognise his daughters, Laidlaw, and myself, whenever we spoke to him—and received every attention with a most touching thankfulness. Mr Clarkson, too, was always saluted with the old courtesy, though the cloud opened but a moment for him to do so. Most truly might it be said that the gentleman survived the genius. . .

As I was dressing on the morning of Monday the 17th of September, Nicolson came into my room, and told me that his master had awoke in a state of composure and consciousness, and wished to see me immediately. I found him entirely himself, though in the last extreme of feebleness. His eye was clear and calm-every trace of the wild fire of delirium extinguished. 'Lockhart,' he

man.

My

said, 'I may have but a minute to speak to you. dear, be a good man-be virtuous-be religious-be a good Nothing else will give you any 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, and, indeed, he scarcely afterwards gave any sign of consciousness, except for an instant on the arrival of his sons. They, on learning that the scene was about to close, obtained anew leave of absence from their posts, and both reached Abbotsford on the 19th. About halfpast one P.M., on the 21st of September, 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 the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes. (From the Life of Scott.)

Athanasia in Prison.

no

Alas! said I to myself, of what tidings am I doomed ever to be the messenger! but she was alone; and how could I shrink from any pain that might perhaps alleviate hers? I took the key, glided along the corridors, and stood once more at the door of the chamber in which I had parted from Athanasia. No voice answered to my knock; I repeated it three times, and then, agitated with indistinct apprehension, hesitated longer to open it. No lamp was burning within the chamber, but from without there entered a wavering glare of deep saffron-coloured light, which showed me Athanasia extended on her couch. Its ominous and troubled hue had no power to mar the image of her sleeping tranquillity. I hung over her for a moment, and was about to disturb that slumber--perhaps the last slumber of peace and innocence-when the chamber walls were visited with a yet deeper glare. 'Caius,' she whispered, as I stepped from beside the couch,' why do you leave me? Stay, Valerius.' I looked back, but her eyelids were still closed; the same calm smile was upon her dreaming lips. The light streamed redder and more red. All in an instant became as quiet without as within. I approached the window, and saw Cotilius standing in the midst of the court, Sabinus and Silo near him; the horsemen drawn up on either side, and a soldier close behind resting upon an unsheathed sword. I saw the keen blue eye as fierce as ever. I saw that the blood was still fervid in his cheeks; for the complexion of this man was of the same bold and florid brightness, so uncommon in Italy, which you have seen represented in the pictures of Sylla; and even the blaze of the torches seemed to strive in vain to heighten its natural scarlet. The soldier had lifted his sword, and my eye was fixed, as by fascination, when suddenly a deep voice was heard amidst the deadly silence: 'Cotilius-look up, Cotilius!'

of Jesus? I charge thee, speak; and for thy soul's sake speak truly.'

A bitter motion of derision passed over his lips, and he nodded, as if impatiently, to the Prætorian. Instinctively I turned me from the spectacle, and my eye rested again upon the couch of Athanasia--but not upon the vision of her tranquillity. The clap with which the corpse fell upon the stones had perhaps reached the sleeping ear, and we know with what swiftness thoughts chase thoughts in the wilderness of dreams. So it was that she started at the very moment when the blow was given; and she whispered-for it was still but a deep whisper Spare me, Trajan, Cæsar, Prince-have pity on my youth-strengthen, strengthen me, good Lord! Fie! Fie! we must not lie to save life. Felix-Valerius -come close to me, Caius-Fie! let us remember we are Romans-'Tis the trumpet'

The Prætorian trumpet sounded the march in the court below, and Athanasia, starting from her sleep, gazed wildly around the reddened chamber. The blast of the trumpet was indeed in her ear-and Valerius hung over her; but after a moment the cloud of the broken dream passed away, and the maiden smiled as she extended her hand to me from the couch, and began to gather up the ringlets that floated all down upon her shoulder. She blushed and smiled mournfully, and asked me hastily whence I came, and for what purpose I had come; but before I could answer, the glare that was yet in the chamber seemed anew to be perplexing her, and she gazed from me to the red walls, and from them to me again; and then once more the trumpet was blown, and Athanasia sprang from her couch. I know not in what terms I was essaying to tell her what was the truth; but I know that ere I had said many words she discovered my meaning. For a moment she looked deadly pale, in spite of all the glare of the torch beams; but she recovered herself, and said in a voice that sounded almost as if it came from a light heart: 'But Caius, I must not go to Cæsar without having at least a garland on my head. Stay here, Valerius, and I shall be ready anon-quite ready.'

It seemed to me as if she were less hasty than she had promised; yet many minutes elapsed not ere she returned. She plucked a blossom from her hair as she drew near me, and said: 'Take it: you must not refuse one token more; this also is a sacred gift. Caius, you must learn never to look upon it without kissing these red streaks these blessed streaks of the Christian flower.'

I took the flower from her hand and pressed it to my lips, and I remembered that the very first day I saw Athanasia she had plucked such a one when apart from all the rest in the gardens of Capito. I told her what I remembered, and it seemed as if the little circumstance had called up all the image of peaceful days, for once more sorrowfulness gathered upon her countenance. the tear was ready, however, it was not permitted to drop; and Athanasia returned again to her flower.

If

'Do you think there are any of them in Britain?' said she; or do you think that they would grow there? You must go to my dear uncle, and he will not deny you when you tell him that it is for my sake he is to give you some of his. They call it the passion-flower—'tis an emblem of an awful thing. Caius, these purple streaks are like trickling drops; and here, look ye, they are all round the flower.

Is it not very like a bloody

crown upon a pale brow? I will take one of them in

my hand too, Caius ; and methinks I shall not disgrace myself when I look upon it, even though Trajan should be frowning upon me.'

I had not the heart to interrupt her, but heard silently all she said, and I thought she said the words quickly and eagerly, as if she feared to be interrupted.

The old priest came into the chamber while she was yet speaking so, and said very composedly: 'Come, my dear child, our friend has sent again for us, and the soldiers have been waiting already some space, who are to convey us to the Palatine. Come, children, we must part for a moment-perhaps it may be but for a moment -and Valerius may remain here till we return to him. Here, at least, dear Caius, you shall have the earliest tidings and the surest.'

The good man took Athanasia by the hand, and she, smiling now at length more serenely than ever, said only: Farewell then, Caius, for a little moment!' And so, drawing her veil over her face, she passed away from before me, giving, I think, more support to the ancient Aurelius than in her turn she received from him. I began to follow them, but the priest waved his hand as if to forbid me. The door closed after them, and I was alone. (From Valerius.)

The standard Life of Lockhart is that of Mr Andrew Lang (2 vols. 1896). See also Mrs Oliphant's William Blackwood and his Sens (1897), and Sir George Douglas's little book, The Blackwood Group (1897).

Thomas Hamilton (1789-1842) produced in The Youth and Manhood of Cyril Thornton (1827) what was hailed as one of the most vigorous and interesting novels of the day; it is full of vivid sketches of college life, military campaigns, and other bustling scenes and adventures, and is not complimentary to the social manners of Glasgow citizens and Glasgow collegians (the hero is an Englishman). Son of a Glasgow professor and brother of the philosopher Sir William Hamilton, the author studied at Glasgow. As captain of the 29th Regiment he served in the Peninsula, Nova Scotia, and France, and retiring on half-pay, settled at Edinburgh and became one of the Blackwood group. He visited the United States, and wrote a lively work on the New World, entitled Men and Manners in America (1833). Cherishing a good deal of aristocratic and insular prejudice, he disliked the democratic government and many of the social habits of the Americans; and his criticisms, unfair rather than ill-natured, caused much irritation in America. He was also author of Annals of the Peninsular War.

Michael Scott (1789-1835), born at Cowlairs near Glasgow, studied at the university, and then tried his fortune in Jamaica and the West Indies as a planter. In 1822 he was in business in Glasgow. In 1829-33 he contributed to Blackwood's the brilliant story of West India life Tom Cringle's Log, showing throughout proofs of the author's personal experiences, keen observation, sprightly temper, and humorous (perhaps too systematically humorous) view of life. His next-best contribution to Blackwood's was The Cruise of the

Midge, issued in 1834 and 1835. Oddly enough Scott preserved a rigid incognito, and his authorship was unknown till after his death. Both the stories appeared first in book form at Paris in 1836; and as both have wealth of incident, abundant verve, and a bright and lively style, they have deservedly retained their popularity and been often reprinted. See Sir George Douglas's The Blackwood Group (1897).

Frederick Marryat, born in Westminster, 10th July 1792, the son of an M.P., in 1806 sailed as midshipman under Lord Cochrane (Dundonald), and spent some years of dangerous service off the French and Spanish coasts and in the Mediterranean. He was concerned in no less than fifty engagements, after one of which an officer, who disliked him, seeing his seemingly lifeless corpse, exclaimed, 'Here's a young cock who has done crowing. Well, for a wonder, this chap has cheated the gallows!' 'You're a liar!' said Marryat faintly, raising his head. Afterwards the 'chap' served in the attack on the French fleet in Aix Roads and in the Walcheren expedition; and in 1814, as lieutenant of the Newcastle, he cut out four vessels in Boston Bay, an exploit of great difficulty and daring. During the Burmese war (1824) he commanded the Larne, and was for some time senior officer on the station. His services were rewarded by professional promotion and honours; and he was a Companion of the Bath (1826) and an officer of the Legion of Honour (1833). He retired in 1830, having already commenced a busy and highly successful literary career in 1829 by the publication of Frank Mildmay, the Naval Officer (1829), a nautical tale in three volumes. This work partook rather strongly of the free spirit of the sailor, but there was a rough racy humour and dramatic liveliness that atoned for more serious faults. Next year Marryat was ready with other three volumes, presenting a well-compacted and more carefully finished story, The King's Own. Newton Forster, or the Merchant Service (1832), a tale of various and sustained interest, was surpassed by its immediate successor, Peter Simple (1834), the most amusing of all the author's works. Dealing still in the main with nautical scenes and portraits, Marryat wrote about thirty volumes-amongst them Jacob Faithful (1834), Mr Midshipman Easy (1836), The Pacha of Many Tales (1836), Japhet in Search of a Father (1836), The Pirate, and the Three Cutters (1836), The Dog Fiend, or Snarleyyow (1837), The Phantom Ship (1839), Poor Jack (1840); and some capital children's books, such as Masterman Ready (1841) and The Children of the New Forest (1847). After a trip to America in 1837, he published A Diary in America, with Remarks on its Institutions. He was no admirer of the democratic government of America; his Diary was as uncomplimentary as the sketches of

Mrs Trollope or Captain Hall. But his notes on traits of manners, peculiarities of speech, and other eccentricities of the Americans were as rich as his purely fictitious work, and, like them, probably owe a good deal to the novelist's creative imagination and love of drollery.

In 1830 he had purchased Langham Manor, near the Norfolk coast, and here he settled in 1843. At one time he had a hobby for making a decoy; he flooded some hundred acres of his best grazingground, got his decoy into full working order so as to send some five thousand birds yearly to the London market, and then-drained it again. His receipts from farming in one year were £154, 2s. 9d. ; his expenditure, 1637, os. 6d. Naturally, he did not die rich, though he had made over £20,000 by his writings, including £8500 during 1832–39 for the first publication of Peter Simple, Jacob Faithful, Japhet in Search of a Father, The Pacha of Many Tales, Mr Midshipman Easy, Snarleyyow, and the Diary in America. In 1847 he applied for service to the Admiralty; and when his request was refused he was so enraged that he burst a blood-vessel, and was seriously ill for months. The news early next year of the loss of his son in the wreck of his ship hastened his own death at Langham on 9th August 1848, and there he is buried.

Quick-tempered, extravagant, and over-eager in the pursuit of enjoyment, Marryat was an excellent officer and a generous man; his home was on the sea, unquestionably; and as a writer of sea-stories he has no superior. He cannot, it may be, bring fully home to his readers the beauty and the terror of the deep; but for invention, narrative skill, and grasp of character, and especially for richness of humour, he stands first of all those who have dealt with the sea and sailors in prose fiction. No doubt his fun often descends to farce; still, setting Dickens aside, there is no English novelist who has awakened heartier and honester laughter. His happiest creations, Mr Chucks and Terence O'Brien, Mesty and Equality Jack, and many more, would not unworthily fill places in the gallery of the greatest novelist. His own varied experiences at sea gave him a large fund of memories to draw from; many of his characters are obviously based on actual persons, and some of the episodes are manifestly autobiographical. Marryat's best books betray no sign of straining after effect; the prose is direct, clear, and vigorous, an ideal, in its way, of the narrative of adventure. Nothing, for example, could well be more vivid, yet nothing could well be simpler and more reserved in style, than such a passage as the clubhauling of the Diomede (in Peter Simple), whereas is usual in Marryat-the excitement and peril of the moment are brought home in the tersest phrase, by dramatic flashes and apt touches of dialogue. His sea-fights, his chases and cuttingout expeditions, are told with irresistible gusto, and with vastly greater artistic skill than Fenimore Cooper's. His books have been the delight of