Then, in a tone apart and low,—

Ah, little traitress! none must know
What idle dream, what lighter thought,
What vanity full dearly bought,
Join'd to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew
My spell-bound steps to Benvenue,
In dangerous hour, and all but gave
Thy monarch's life to mountain glaive!”-
Aloud he spoke―" Thou still dost hold
That little talisman of gold,
Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring—
What seeks fair Ellen of the King?"

Full well the conscious maiden guess'd
He probed the weakness of her breast;
But, with that consciousness, there came
A lightening of her fears for Græme,
And more she deem'd the monarch's ire
Kindled 'gainst him, who for her sire,
Rebellious broadsword boldly drew;
And, to her generous feeling true,
She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.
"Forbear thy suit:-the King of kings
Alone can stay life's parting wings:

I know his heart, I know his hand,

Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand

My fairest earldom would I give

To bid Clan Alpine's Chieftain live!

Hast thou no other boon to crave ?

No other captive friend to save ?"
Blushing, she turn'd her from the King,
And to the Douglas gave the ring,
As if she wish'd her sire to speak

The suit that stain'd her glowing cheek.—
"Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,
And stubborn justice holds her course.

Malcolm, come forth!"—and, at the word,
Down kneel'd the Græme to Scotland's Lord.
"For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,
From thee may Vengeance claim her dues,
Who, nurtured underneath our smile,
Hast paid our care by treacherous wile,
And sought, amid thy faithful clan,
A refuge for an outlaw'd man,
Dishonouring thus thy loyal name.-
Fetters and warder for the Græme!".
His chain of gold the King unstrung,
The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung,
Then gently drew the glittering band,
And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand.

This, then, is the "Lady of the Lake," a poem not so high in its quality as "Marmion," but containing a more interesting story, and dearer to the hearts of the poet's countrymen, as more exclusively devoted to Scottish scenery and adventure. But at this period, 1814, when he was almost saturated with praise and honour, there appeared a short advertisement, which probably made no sensation at the time, but which, it is not too much to say, altered the state of literature throughout the world, and repaid a thousandfold the fame which his country bestowed upon the author by the glory he won for it. Scotland, which was unknown to the greater part of Europe, except as a barren district to the north of England, in which only thistles and metaphysics flourished to any extent,

became almost a second father-land to the readers of Walter Scott, wherever they were placed. This was the advertisement :-" Shortly will be published, in three volumes, a novel, called 'Waverley: or, 'Tis Sixty Years Since."" No name was given, and people probably looked on with the same equanimity as if it had been the notice of a house to be sold, or a servant wanting a place. We who trace the effects of it may wonder at the apathy with which it was received, as the German students were amazed at the listlessness with which the peasants of the Black Forest observed, or rather did not observe, the source of the Danube. But both in due time were recognised in their full proportions. The mighty cities upon its banks gave fame and glory to the river, and called attention to the brooklet in which it begins; and the works that followed in quick succession from the same hand invest with curious interest the column of the Scots Magazine for 1st February, 1814, in which the approaching publication was announced.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

1814-1819.

NOVELS.

WITH this modest and memorable advertisement, then, a new career began—a career from which, whether in his character of man or author, many valuable lessons may be learned. For Scott's is not one of the prodigious intellects like Newton's, so raised above ordinary sympathies by the loftiness of the matters it deals with as to impress us merely with bewilderment and awe; nor is his period so remote, like Chaucer's, as to involve his personal feelings in the obscurity of a totally different state of life and manners; nor is he, fortunately, like Shakspearethe nearest akin to him of all the great of oldso neglected in his individual capacity during life and shortly after his decease, as to make it impossible to recal the shades of character, the shape of feature, the tone of voice. He is of ourselves, and still speaks to us like an elder brother of the joys and sorrows, the thoughts and sentiments of the nineteenth century, the

richest both in intellect and action of all the centuries of human life. And now we have followed him to the turning point of his history, the year which was also the turning point of the history of Europe. For in this year the Allied Armies entered Paris,-Napoleon said adieu to France amid the tears of his soldiers at Fontainebleau, and was quietly biding his time in the breathing-ground of Elba. Did Scott, whose warlike spirit broke forth in song while the world was convulsed from end to end with trumpet and drum, instinctively feel that "the piping times of peace," which he fondly looked to as in store for mankind, required a different style of literature as well as a new order of society? The wild ballad note, which was never wholly absent in the most elaborate of his poems, seemed in perfect accordance with the national shouts of triumph for Talavera and Vittoria; and yet there was a contrast between the past and present in the most military of his lays, which kept them from the degradation of being merely gazettes in rhyme. They appealed to the roused feelings of the nation by the clanking of Border broadswords and marshalling of hostile ranks under Edward and The Bruce.-But men's minds were now to take a different direction. The olive was again to grow, and the voice of the turtle dove to be heard in our land. The passions,