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Of the distinction won by de Wilton in this battle of Flodden Field, of his restoration to all his former honours and possessions, and of his happy union with his faithful and long-loved Clara, the reader will scarcely need to be told. " Love they like Wilton and like Clare " was for long a proverbial blessing invoked on a wedded couple.

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Lady of the Lake

Canto I

A huntsman, taking part in a stag-hunt in the Highlands of Perthshire, pursued the chase with such ardour and impetuosity that his horse, overcome with fatigue, stumbled and died in a rocky valley. After wandering further through the ravine the huntsman climbed up a precipitous rock.

And thus an airy point he won, Where, gleaming with the setting sun, One burnished sheet of living gold, Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled In all her length far-winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay, And islands that, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light, And mountains that like giants stand To sentinel enchanted land.

After gazing with rapture on the scene the huntsman sounded his horn in the hope of calling some attendant or straggler of the train, when, to his surprise, he saw a little skiff, guided by a beautiful damsel, touch the shore beneath him.

The " Lady of the Lake " is Scott's third poem. It was published in May, 1810, Scott receiving nominally £2,000 for the copyright, the publishers, however, retaining three-fourths of the property. Its success equalled that of its predecessors; according to Lockhart, no fewer than 20,000 copies were sold before the year was out. Critics who had vigorously condemned the "Lay" and " Marmion " now joined in the chorus of applause. The Perthshire Highlands became the fashionable resort for tourists, and, again quoting Lockhart, the post-horse duty to Scotland regularly rose from that year. The success that attended Scott's poems was due not so much to their purely poetic qualities—although they include many touches of genuine poetry—as to the romantic spirit which he afterwards used to such excellent purpose in his novels. Scott, who greatly admired Johnson's poems, never formed an exalted opinion of his own verses.

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And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace Of finer form or lovelier face! What though the sun, with ardent frown, Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown—* The sportive toil, which, short and light, Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, Served, too, in hastier swell to show Short glimpses of a breast of snow. What though no rule of courtly grace To measured mood had trained her pace— A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew; E'en the slight harebell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread: What though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue— Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The listener held his breath to hear! A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid; Her satin snood, her silken plaid, Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed. And seldom was a snood amid Such wild, luxuriant ringlets hid, Where glossy black to shame might bring The plumage of the raven's wing; And seldom o'er a breast so fair Mantled a plaid with modest care. And never brooch the folds combined Above a heart more good and kind. Her kindness and her worth to spy, You need but gaze on Ellen's eye. Not Katrine in her mirror blue Gives back the shaggy banks more true Than every free-born glance confessed The guileless movements of her breast; Whether joy danced in her dark eye, 161

Or woe or pity claimed a sigh, Or filial love was glowing there, Or meek devotion poured a prayer, Or tale of injury called forth The indignant spirit of the North. One only passion unrevealed With maiden pride the maid concealed, Yet not less purely felt the flame; Oh, need I tell that passion's name?

Impatient at hearing no second blast from the horn, the damsel called out, " Father! " and then asked, " Malcolm, was thine the blast ?" At this point the huntsman came forward.

On his bold visage middle age

Had slightly pressed its signet sage,

Yet had not quenched the open truth

And fiery vehemence of youth;

Forward and frolic glee was there,

The will to do, the soul to dare,

The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire,

Of hasty love, or headlong ire.

His limbs were cast in manly mould,

For hardy sports or contest bold;

And though in peaceful garb arrayed,

And weaponless, except his blade,

His stately mien as well implied

A high-born heart, a martial pride,

As if a baron's crest he wore,

And sheathed in armour trod the shore.

Slighting the petty need he showed,

He told of his benighted road;

His ready speech flowed fair and free,

In phrase of gentlest courtesy;

Yet seemed that tone and gesture bland

Less used to sue than to command.

After holding a short parley with him Ellen took him into her skiff, and he was carried to a woody island and led to a lodge constructed of tree trunks. Here he was entertained at

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supper, and introduced to an elderly lady. But although he announced himself as " James Fitz-James, the Knight of Snowdoun," it was in vain that he endeavoured to elicit the name and history of the two ladies. He retired to rest without being told anything about them, though their manner showed them to be of gentle birth; and he departed the next day having learned nothing more. In truth, the younger lady was the daughter of the great Douglas, now a fugitive from the wrath of the king, and protected by the fierce marauder, Sir Roderick Dhu, while the elderly lady, who for years had acted a mother's part to Ellen Douglas, was Sir Roderick's mother, the Lady Margaret. Sir Roderick was in love with Ellen, and on the very day of the stranger's departure he proposed that her hand should be given him in marriage, and that Douglas and he should form a league against the king, who was coming to the Highlands on the pretence of hunting the game. Douglas, however, refused both of these alliances, and offered to find refuge elsewhere; for Ellen's heart was given to the gallant young Malcolm Graeme, who, though a silent auditor of Sir Roderick's proposals, was nearly dragged into a quarrel with his rival just prior to receiving from him a safe conduct home. The next day Sir Roderick sent round the Fiery Cross to all his vassals. He slew a goat, the patriarch of the flock, and a priest called Brian, having formed a cross of a cubit's length from rods of yew, first scathed it in a fire made of juniper and rowan branches, and then quenched its flames in the blood of the goat, meanwhile invoking curses on all clansmen who, thus summoned to their chieftain's aid, disobeyed the signal.