land. The public prints were dressed in mourning; many of the vessels in the harbors throughout England, were hung at half-mast. The funeral took place on the 26th. Even nature seemed to participate in the general gloom. I was, on that very day, on the borders of Loch Achray,-so sweetly sung in the Lady of the Lake :

"The minstrel came once more to view
The eastern ridge of Benvenue;

For ere he parted, he would say
Farewell to lovely Loch Achray.
Where shall he find in foreign land,
So pure a lake, so sweet a strand?
There is no breeze upon the fern,
No ripple on the lake;

Upon her eyry nods the erne,
The deer has sought the brake.
The small birds will not sing aloud,
The springing trout lies still,
So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud,
That swathes, as with a purple shroud,
Benledi's distant hill."

On the day of Scott's burial-at the very hour he was borne along to the tomb-this lake-the Trosachs-Ben Ain, Benvenue,―the scenery which has become enchanted ground through the magic power of his minstrelsy,-were dressed in clouds, weeping, as if in sympathy with mankind, and mourning the departure of that mighty spirit which had wreathed their brows with imperishable fame.

It is hardly necessary to say anything more of the character of Sir Walter Scott. His noble struggle to pay his debts, in which, though he was at last successful, he sacrificed his life, will ever remain as an evidence

of his high sense of honor and integrity. He was, not only a great man, but a noble gentleman. He was, indeed, an ornament to human nature. It is gratifying to know that his self-immolation was not in vain; his debts have been paid; Abbotsford is disencumbered, and is now in the possession of the family; Sir Walter Scott, the eldest son of the author of Waverly, being at its head. The certainty of these happy results dawned on the last days of Scott, and lighted his path down to the grave.

If every man owe a debt of gratitude to him who affords him pleasure, then the world lies under a weight of obligation to Walter Scott, which cannot be conceived. Nor is pleasure the only result of his writings. He has contributed to enlighten and elevate the human race more than any other modern writer. Millions of individuals have been kept from pursuing coarse gratifications, by reading his books, and led to find enjoyment in intellectual pursuits. Millions have had their minds invigorated, their hearts purified and softened, by the productions of his genius. The language in which he wrote is for all after time a more powerful instrument of thought. He has elevated the standard of human intellect, and improved the civilization of the world. He has been one of the great benefactors of his race.

If he possessed not a genius superior to that of Byron, he was a greater and better man. His works are more numerous and of a more popular cast, and, with few exceptions, they are of a beneficial tendency. Scott was a man of principle, and deeply reverenced religion. If not a religious man, in the best acceptance

of the term, his life was a wholesome rebuke to those who fancy that it is witty to scoff at sacred things; that genius can excuse immorality; that vice implies talent; that virtue is synonymous with dulness. The example and writings of Byron had led to a fearful laxity of morals, as well in conversation as in conduct; showing itself in society and literature. It is due to the memory of Scott, to observe, that his life and productions have furnished a powerful barrier against the false philosophy and corrupt practices, which flowed from his great rival's life and writings.

BYRON.

GEORGE GORDON, afterwards Lord Byron, was born in London, 22d January, 1788. He was of an ancient and renowned family, but his father, a captain in the British navy, was poor, considering the notions and habits of the English aristocracy, to which he belonged.

Owing to an accident attending his birth, one of Byron's feet was distorted,- -a defect which was never removed, and which rendered him, to some extent, a cripple for life. This was a source of pain and mortification to him as long as he lived. It is curious that Sir Walter Scott, who was the cotemporary of Byron, a rival poet, and holding the public admiration divided between them, had also a lame foot, and was, though in a greater degree, a cripple.

In 1790, Byron's mother, who had separated from her husband, retired, with her son George, to Scotland, and established herself in humble lodgings in the fine old town of Aberdeen. She was a proud woman, hasty, violent and unreasonable; she had neither sense nor principle sufficient to restrain her temper. It burst forth on a great many occasions, and the youthful Byron was often its victim. Un