him to come to Edinburgh, and used his influence to obtain work for him; by degrees, as his own schemes of authorship took shape, he joined his fortunes with those of his friend, and was in effect a partner of his in a great and growing business. Scott wrote the books which Ballantyne printed, and his mighty industry kept the presses filled. Was it strange that Scott should have been thought by his partner, and should have thought himself, to have an inexhaustible capital in his brain, when he had only to write a novel, and thousands of pounds flowed in at once? But over confidence, bad management, and troublesome times, brought a crisis. The printing and publishing houses in which he was interested, failed, and Scott became suddenly a poor man but still with that California head of his.

And now came the turn in Sir Walter's life, which, with all its sadness, led to his noblest honor. The law gave him the chance to escape the obligation laid upon him by the failure of Ballantyne, but he refused to accept it. Friends, even strangers, came forward with magnificent offers of money, but he put them aside, took up his pen, and deliberately set about discharging debts which his sense of aonor forbade him to disregard. He was to

roll off a load of five hundred thousand dollars. Look at this man! nearly sixty years of age, "lonely, aged, deprived of my familyall but poor Anne," as he writes, when fast following his losses, comes the death of his wife; so lonely, that for companionship he talks to his daily "Diary," yet working on and on, steadily giving himself to his task, and shrinking from no labor that may bring him nearer to the goal of his desires; warned by a paralytic stroke, yet again taking his heavy pen, which once raced lightly over the paper,

we turn away, and will not look at the failing strength, the broken body, the worn mind. He died the 21st of September, 1832, having, with almost superhuman strength, discharged half of his obligations. His family and friends took up the sacred debt, and discharged the remainder. The world will never cease owing a debt of gratitude to one who has cheered it with so many pure and noble tales, and given it, besides, his own hearty, whole-souled, manly life.

THE SINGING OF THE SEIRENS.

AS TOLD BY ODYSSEUS.

[Odysseus and his shipmates, returning from the shores where they had called up the shadowy ghosts, once more feasted on Kirke's island, and rested before they should take up again their wanderings. Odysseus told Kirke what they nad passed through, and whither they now were to go she in turn revealed to him.]

KIRKE speaks.

come to an end;

:

"So, all these labors have

now hear what I shall tell

thee it is God himself shall show it. To the Seirens thou first wilt come, that bewitch men, when any one draws nigh; when he, unwitting, nears them and hears the sound of their singing, to him no wife nor children dear stand at the door to welcome him to his home again, no, but the Seirens enchant him with their silvery melody as they sit on the meadow sward. But around them is a huge heap of bones with shrivelling flesh, the bones, the flesh of rotting men. Row past! row past their isle and stuff thy fellows' ears with honeyed wax that none may hear. Thus with the rest, but be it thine to hear if thou wilt, bidding the

men bind thee hand and foot, erect upon the mast-frame, with the ropes tightly gathered about the mast. So thou mayst take thy fill of joy in listening to the Seirens. But if thou implorest thy comrades, yea bidst them set thee free, then let them fetter thee with still other bands."

Up

Such were her words: then straight the Light of Day rose in the East and sat on her throne of gold. Back over her island home went heavenly Kirke, and I to my ship again, where I bade the fellows climb once more the ship's side and cast loose the hawsers. they clomb and took their places on the rowers' benches; stroke on stroke their oars dipped in the frothy sea, but again came a fore wind, bellying the sails and making the ship's prow cut the waves with its deep-blue blade; brave messmate that, for our voyage, sent by Kirke, strange goddess with her waving tresses and her human voice! So, straight, all left the oars and sat on deck, each hammering at his armor, whilst the wind and the helmsman kept the ship on her course. Then I opened my lips, and out of my heavy heart spoke to the fellows:

"Friends all! for it were not well that one,

or two at most, should know the fateful tales which Kirke told to me. I will retell them that all may know and die, if die we must, or know them to escape, and flee a fated death. First then, she warns us shun the voice of the heavenly-throated Seirens, and the flowery mead whereon they rest. Me only would she have to hear their song. But tie me with stubborn ties that I may stay fast bound, erect upon the mast-frame, with the ropes knotted to the mast. And should I beg, nay, command you to loose me, do you only press me tight to the mast with more bands still."

Each of Kirke's tales I told in turn; while I was yet speaking, our good ship, flying forward, was at the Seirens' isle, for the favoring breeze drove her on. Then all at once the wind dropped; there was a dead calm; a spirit hushed the waves in slumber. The men arose, furled the ship's sails and laid them by in the hold, then sat on the rowers' benches and turned up the foaming water with their smooth oars. For me, I took a great cake of wax and, cutting it into bits with a sharp knife, kneaded the pieces with my sturdy hands. Quickly the wax melted, for it yielded to the mighty force of the Sun-god, Hyperion's kingly son. One by one I smeared the ears of all my comrades,