ures with a conscious pride; that ocean which hardy industry regards, even when the winds have ruffled its surface, as a field of grateful toil,—what is it to the victim of this oppression when he is brought to its shores, and looks forth upon it for the first time from beneath chains and bleeding with stripes? What is it to him, but a widespread prospect of suffering, anguish, and death? Nor do the skies smile longer; nor is the air fragrant to him. The sun is cast down from heaven. An inhuman and cursed traffic has cut him off in his manhood, or in his youth, from every enjoyment belonging to his being, and every blessing which his Creator intended for him.

XII. THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN FIELD.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

WALTER SCOTT was born in Edinburgh, August 15, 1771; and died at Abbotsford, September 21, 1832. In 1792 he was called to the Scotch bar as an advocate; but he made little progress in his profession, and was soon allured from it by the higher attractions of literature. After having written and published a few fugitive pieces, and edited a collection of border ballads, he broke upon the world, in 1805, with his "Lay of the Last Minstrel," which was received with a burst of admiration almost without parallel in literary history. This was followed by "Marmion," and "The Lady of the Lake," which added to the author's reputation, and by "Rokeby," and "The Lord of the Isles," which fairly sustained it. These poems were unlike anything that had preceded them. Their versification was easy and graceful, though sometimes careless; their style was energetic and condensed; their pictures were glowing and faithful; the characters and incidents were fresh and startling; and in the battle scenes there was a power of painting which rivaled the pages of Homer. The whole civilized world rose up to greet with admiration the poet who transported them to the lakes and mountains of Scotland, introduced them to knights and mosstroopers, and thrilled them with scenes of wild adventure and lawless violence.

In 1814 there appeared, without any preliminary announcement, and anonymously, a novel called " Waverley," which soon attracted great attention, and gave rise to much speculation as to its authorship. This was the beginning of that splendid series of works of fiction, commonly called the Waverley novels, which continued to be poured forth in rapid succession till 1827. From the first there was very little doubt that Scott was the author of these works, although they were published without any name; and when the avowal was made, in 1827, it took nobody by surprise. Of the great

powers put forth in these novels, of their immense popularity, and of the influence they have exerted, and are still exerting, upon literature, it is not necessary to speak, nor could such a subject be discussed in a notice like this.

Besides his poems and novels, Scott wrote a Life of Napoleon, various other biographies, and many works besides. He was a man of immense literary industry, and his writings fill eighty-eight volumes of small octavo size. All this did not prevent his discharging faithfully the duties of a citizen, of a father of a family, and (for many years) of a magistrate.

Scott's life has been written by his son-in-law, Lockhart; and it is a truthful record of what he was and what he did. His was a noble nature, with much to love, and much to admire. He was a warm friend, most affectionate in his domestic relations, and ever ready to do kind acts to those who stood in need of them.

The following extract from "Marmion" describes the battle of Flodden Field, or Flodden, in which the English, under the Earl of Surrey, defeated, with great slaughter, the Scotch, under their king, James IV., September 9, 1513. Flodden Hill, an offshoot of the Cheviot range, is in the county of Northumberland, in England, a few miles from the town of Coldstream. Marmion, an imaginary personage, is an English nobleman of bad character. Blount and Fitz Eustace are his squires. Lady Clare is an English heiress, for whose hand Marmion had been an unsuccessful suitor, and whose lover, Wilton, now fighting on the English side, he had attempted to ruin, but failed. Jeffrey, in his review of "Marmion," in the Edinburgh Review, says: "Of all the poetical battles which have been fought, from the days of Homer to those of Mr. Southey, there is none, in our opinion, at all comparable, for interest and animation, for breadth of drawing and magnificence of effect, with this."

LOUNT* and Fitz Eustace rested still

BLO

With Lady Clare upon the hill;
On which (for far the day was spent)
The western sunbeams now were bent.
The cry they heard, its meaning knew,
Could plain their distant comrades view:
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,

"Unworthy office here to stay!

No hope of gilded spurs to-day. -+
But see! look up, -on Flodden bent
The Scottish foe has fired his tent."
And sudden, as he spoke,

From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All downward to the banks of Till,

Was wreathed in sable smoke.

*Pronounced Blŏnt or Blunt.

+ That is, no hope of being advanced to the dignity of knighthood, of which gilded spurs were the badge.

Volumed and vast, and rolling far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,

As down the hill they broke;

Nor marshal shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march; their tread alone,
At times one warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum,

Told England, from his mountain-throne
King James did rushing come.

Scarce could they hear or see their foes,
Until at weapon-point they close. -
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust;
And such a yell was there,

Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air;

O life and death were in the shout,
Recoil and rally, charge and rout,
And triumph and despair!

Long looked the anxious squires; their eye
Could in the darkness naught descry.
At length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast;
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears ;
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then marked they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,

And pluméd crests of chieftains brave,
Floating like foam upon the wave;

But naught distinct they see.

Wide raged the battle on the plain;
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;

Fell England's arrow-flight like rain;
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,
Wild and disorderly.

Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;
Though there the western mountaineer
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear,
And flung the feeble targe aside,

And with both hands the broadsword plied,
'T was vain : But Fortune, on the right,

With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight.
Then fell that spotless banner white,
The Howard's lion fell;

Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew
Around the battle-yell.

The Border slogan rent the sky.
A Home! a Gordon! was the cry:

Loud were the clanging blows;

Advanced, forced back, now low, now high,

The pennon sunk and rose;

As bends the bark's mast in the gale,
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,
It wavered 'mid the foes.

No longer Blount the view could bear :
"By Heaven and all its saints! I swear
I will not see it lost!

Fitz Eustace, you, with Lady Clare,
May bid your beads, and patter prayer,
I gallop to the host."

And to the fray he rode amain,
Followed by all the archer train.
The fiery youth, with desperate charge,
Made, for a space, an opening large,-
The rescued banner rose,

But darkly closed the war around,

Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground,
It sank among the foes.

Then Eustace mounted too;

yet stayed,

As loath to leave the helpless maid,

When, fast as shaft can fly,

Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread,
The loose rein dangling from his head,
Housing and saddle bloody red,

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by;
And Eustace, maddening at the sight,
A look and sign to Clara cast,
To mark he would return in haste,

Then plunged into the fight.

Ask me not what the maiden feels,

Left in that dreadful hour alone :
Perchance her reason stoops, or reels;
Perchance a courage, not her own,
Braces her mind to desperate tone.
The scattered van of England wheels;
She only said, as loud in air

The tumult roared, "Is Wilton there?"
They fly, or maddened by despair,

Fight but to die.

"Is Wilton there?"

XIII.-THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN FIELD.

(CONCLUDED.)

ITH that, straight up the hill there rode

WT

Two horsemen drenched with gore,

And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore.

His hand still strained the broken brand;

His arms were smeared with blood and sand: