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sible in one man turning out such a prodigious amount of work, that there was a stout discussion going on all the time whether Scott really was the author. Some of his intimate friends, who were not in the secret, would not believe him the author, for they saw him constantly engaged all day long with other work, or showing his liberal hospitality: they did not see him, however, in the early morning, when he was throwing off sheet after sheet of his latest novel before the household had risen; or at night in his chamber when the household was at rest. Lockhart, who has written Scott's Life, tells us how once in Edinburgh he was dining with some young fellows, gay and thoughtless like himself, with little care except to make the present pass quickly; — but we will let him tell his story:

"After carousing for an hour or more, I observed that a shade had come over the aspect of my friend Menzies, who happened to be placed immediately opposite to myself, and said something that intimated a fear of his being unwell. "No!' said he. 'I shall be well enough presently, if you will only let me sit where you are, and take my chair; for there is a confounded hand in sight of me here, which has often bothered me before, and

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now it won't let me fill my glass with a good will.' I rose to change places with him accordingly, and he pointed out to me this band, which, like the writing on Belshazzar's wall, disturbed his hour of hilarity. Since we sat down,' he said, 'I have been watching it: it fascinates my eye; it never stops; page after page is finished, and thrown on that heap of manuscript, and still it goes on unwearied; and so it will be till candles are brought in, and God knows how long after that. It is the same every night: I can't stand a sight of it when I am not at my books.''Some stupid, dogged, engrossing clerk, probably,' exclaimed myself, or some other giddy youth in our society.' 'No, boys!' said our host; I well know what hand it is: 'tis Walter Scott's.' This was the hand that, in the evenings of three summer weeks, wrote the two last volumes of Waverley.' Would that all who that night watched it, had profited by its example of diligence as largely as William Menzies!"

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As Scott's popularity rose with each successive novel, so his prosperity increased, and he set about achieving what had long been a cherished purpose-the building for himself a house in the heart of his beloved country,

which should be his own, and, like the houses of his ancestors, be the gathering place of all his friends and kinsmen, where he could display a hospitality as broad as his generous nature desired; and where, too, he could realize to the full his darling ambition of living a right noble Scottish life, farming, planting trees, and making a grand Scott homestead. As with all the rest of his plans, this grew, from little beginnings and humble intentions, to vast proportions; and the result was Abbotsford, with its great castle-like house, built of spoils from all the neighboring ruins, and filled with curious ancient relics, which the enthusiastic antiquary gathered and received from every quarter. Here his friends came, and about him here his family grew; while the farm itself, under his artist eye, developed into a lovely and varied estate.

Did not this seem to be a sunny life? and yet there was to come a storm; and after the storm, men were to see this stalwart, oaken character still erect, though beaten upon sorely.

Early in his literary career, indeed before he was fairly a writer, Scott had interested himself in an old school friend, James Ballantyne, who was a printer at Kelso. He induced

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