The Country of Sir Walter Scott. Charles S. Olcott

vied,

       Seemed, by the torch's gloomy light,

       Like the ill Demon of the night.

      Yet in spite of the fierce aspect of this terrible chief, one cannot withhold his admiration, and we feel like echoing the shout of enthusiasm of the cheering boatmen as they approach the island, singing—

      Loud should Clan-Alpine then

       Ring from her deepmost glen,

       Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

      When Roderick scorns to take advantage of Fitz-James, though the latter is in his power, and shares with him his camp-fire, his supper, and his bed, finally conducting him in safety through hundreds of hostile Highlanders to the very limits of Clan-Alpine's territory, there to battle single-handed and on equal terms, we begin to feel what real Highland hospitality and chivalry mean and to realize the true nobility of character beneath the rough exterior of this stern soldier.

      Ellen's father, the exiled Douglas, was a giant in stature who could wield as lightly as a hazel wand a sword which other men could scarcely lift.

      The women praised his stately form,

       Though wrecked by many a winter's storm;

       The youth with awe and wonder saw

       His strength surpassing Nature's law.

      Contrasting with this fine old man was Malcolm Graeme, Ellen's lover:—

      Of stature fair, and slender frame

       But firmly knit was Malcolm Graeme.

       The belted plaid and tartan hose Did ne'er more graceful limbs disclose; His flaxen hair, of sunny hue, Curled closely round the bonnet blue.

      His mind was 'lively and ardent, frank and kind,' and he had a scorn of wrong and a zeal for truth that promised to make his name one of the greatest in the mountains. But poor Malcolm was to the poet's mind not an artistic success. The latter confessed that he compelled him to swim from Ellen's Isle to the shore merely to give him something to do, but 'wet or dry,' he said, 'I could do nothing with him.'

       LOCH ACHRAY

      Behind these five figures we could fancy a white-haired minstrel, harp in hand; a hermit monk, in frock and hood, barefooted, with grizzled hair and matted beard, naked arms and legs seamed with scars, and a wild and savage face that spoke of nothing but despair; three young men in kilt skirts and Highland plaids, every movement showing the agile strength of their youthful limbs, passing from one to another a cross of fire—Malise, Angus, and Norman, the messengers who summoned the clans to battle; and back of all, filling up the picture, Highlanders of high and low degree, men, women, and children, all fired with intense loyalty to the Clan-Alpine. The whole picture seemed to project itself upon a background of mountains and valleys, lakes, rivers and waterfalls, fantastic rocks and weather-beaten crags, grey birches and warrior oaks, ferns and wild flowers, all