all were dull because Scott was dull. Where's that bairn? What can have come over her? I'll go myself and see' And he was getting up, and would have gone, when the bell rang, and in came Duncan Roy and his henchman, Tougald, with the sedan-chair, which was brought right into the lobby, and its top raised. And there, in its darkness and dingy old cloth, sat Maidie in white, her eyes gleaming, and Scott bending over her in ecstasy. 'Sit ye there, my dautie, till they all see you'; and forthwith he brought them all. You can fancy the scene. And he lifted her up and marched to his seat with her on his stout shoulder, and set her down beside him; and then began the night, and such a night! Those who knew Scott best said that night was never equaled; Maidie and he were the stars; and she gave them Constance's speeches and Helvellyn, the ballad then much in vogue, and all her repertoire, Scott showing her off, and being ofttimes rebuked by her for his intentional blunders."

Up in the mornings at five, Scott was at his writing-desk by six, and by the time the other members of the family had come down to breakfast at ten, he had done enough, as he put it, "to break the neck of the day's work." His manly, earnest life, his kindness to all men, his genuineness, and what Carlyle calls his healthiness of mind and temper, won him the highest esteem, and personally endeared him to a very wide circle. He delighted in company, and was never happier than when reciting for his

guests some ancient border ballad with all the fire of a rude minstrel. In his later life, owing largely to the failure of a publishing house in which he was a silent partner, debt almost overwhelmed him, but he worked manfully under his load. His literary achievements at this time were enormous. Finally, though in failing health, he paid his creditors in full. For years he chose to conceal the authorship of his novels, wittily turning aside the inquiries of those who suspected the fact. People waited eagerly for the next Waverley novel and speculated by the hour as to who wrote it. Finally, at a public dinner in Edinburgh, he disclosed the truth. We can imagine the scene, the crowding about, and the healths, for a man who had won more by his pen alone than, perhaps, any other man had done. George IV conferred on him the title of baronet, and from that time he was Sir Walter Scott. "Be a good man, my dear," were his last words, spoken to his son-in-law, J. G. Lockhart.

[Born in 1771-died in 1832]

TO SIR WALTER SCOTT

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

O, great and gallant Scott,

True gentleman, heart, blood and bone,

I would it had been my lot

To have seen thee, and heard thee, and known.

THE ARCHERY CONTEST

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT

Ivanhoe, from which the following selection is taken, is a story of the time of Richard I. Locksley, the stranger who shoots against Hubert, is Robin Hood, the famous English outlaw, in disguise.

"Now, Locksley," said Prince John to the bold yeoman, with a bitter smile, "wilt thou try conclusions with Hubert, or wilt thou yield up bow, baldric, and quiver, to the provost of the sports?"

"Sith it be no better," said Locksley, "I am content to try my fortune; on condition that when I have shot two shafts at yonder mark of Hubert's, he shall be bound to shoot one at that which I propose.'

"That is but fair," answered Prince John, "and it shall not be refused thee.-If thou dost beat this braggart, Hubert, I will fill the bugle with silver pennies for thee."

"A man can do but his best," answered Hubert; "but my grandsire drew a good long-bow at Hastings, and I trust not to dishonor his memory."

The former target was now removed, and a fresh one of the same size placed in its room. Hubert, who, as victor in the first trial of skill, had the right to shoot first, took his aim with great deliberation, long measuring the distance with his eye, while he held in his hand his bended bow, with the arrow placed on the string. At length he

made a step forward, and raising the bow at the full stretch of his left arm, till the center or grasping-place was high level with his face, he drew his bow-string to his ear. The arrow whistled through the air, and lighted within the inner ring of the target, but not exactly in the center.

"You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert," said his antagonist, bending his bow, "or that had been a better shot."

So saying, and without shewing the least anxiety to pause upon his aim, Locksley stepped to the appointed station, and shot his arrow as carelessly in appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark. He was speaking almost at the instant that the shaft left the bowstring, yet it alighted in the target two inches 'nearer to the white spot which marked the center than that of Hubert.

"By the light of Heaven!" said Prince John to Hubert, 66 an thou suffer that runagate knave to overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows!"

Hubert had but one set speech for all occasions. "An your highness were to hang me," he said, "a man can but do his best. Nevertheless, my grandsire drew a good

bow-"

"The foul fiend on thy grandsire and all his generation!" interrupted John; "shoot, knave, and shoot thy best, or it shall be worse for thee!"

Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and not neglecting the caution which he had received from his adversary, he made the necessary allowance for a very light air of wind, which had just arisen, and shot so successfully that his arrow alighted in the very center of the target.

"A Hubert! a Hubert!" shouted the populace, more interested in a known person than in a stranger. "In the clout!-in the clout!-a Hubert for ever!"

"Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley," said the Prince with an insulting smile.

"I will notch his shaft for him, however," replied Locksley.

And letting fly his arrow with a little more precaution than before, it lighted right upon that of his competitor, which it split to shivers. The people who stood around were so astonished at his wonderful dexterity, that they could not even give vent to their surprise in their usual clamor. "This must be the devil, and no man of flesh and blood," whispered the yeomen to each other; "such archery was never seen since a bow was first bent in Britain."

"And now," said Locksley, "I will crave your Grace's permission to plant such a mark as is used in the North Country; and welcome every brave yeoman who shall try a shot at it to win a smile from the bonny lass he loves best."