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THE FIERY CROSS OF CLAN ALPINE

WALTER SCOTT

SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832), whose poems and romances are known and admired wherever the English language is spoken, was born in Edinburgh, Scotland. But the great story-teller was not to spend his childhood among brick walls. In the country 5 home of a kinsman, where he was sent to try the effect of bracing air on a leg shrunk by fever, the lame little fellow, "as he lay on the grass among his intimate friends, the sheep," feasted his beauty-loving eyes on the rippling Tweed and the forests and farms on its banks.

From earliest childhood he was interested in old stories, legends, romances, battles, sieges, knight-errantry. As soon as he heard a border-raid ballad he knew it by heart. A copy of Percy's collection of early poetry fell into his hands. His delight in it was so great that, notwithstanding the sharp appetite of 15 thirteen, he forgot his dinner and all else until he could finish the book and declaim passages of it to any one who would listen. For the rest, he was dreamy, sometimes lazy, sometimes stirring with wonderful energy, studied as the fever took him, but read unweariedly. 66 Having been taken sick, he was kept two 20 years in bed, forbidden to speak, with no other pleasure than to

read the poets, novelists, historians, and geographers, illustrating the battle descriptions by setting in line little pebbles, which represented soldiers."

After he was able to walk he made excursions into all parts 25 of the country, and stored in a wonderful memory all the scraps of history, bits of songs, and romantic narratives that he could collect. Each year for seven years he "wandered into the wild district of Liddesdale, exploring every stream and every ruin, sleeping in the shepherds' huts, gleaning legends and ballads. 30 He read town charters, parish registers, dirty parchments, even contracts and wills. The first time that he was able to lay his

hands on one of the great old "border war horns, he startled the roadside dwellers by blowing it all along his route."

At his country home, Abbotsford, he spent vast sums, won from his writings, in building a castle in imitation of the castles of the old knights, and there he kept open house.

Such training goes far toward making a poet and romancer, and to explain the freshness and life of such poems as The Lady of the Lake, Marmion, and of such stories as the Waverley Novels.

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As to Scott, I cannot express my delight at his character and 10 manners. He is a sterling, golden-hearted old worthy, full of the joyousness of youth, with an imagination continuously sending forth pictures, and a charming simplicity of manner that puts you at ease with him in a moment. - WASHINGTON IRVING.

The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer,
A slender crosslet framed with care,
A cubit's length in measure due;
The shafts and limbs were rods of yew,
Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave
Their shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's grave,
And, answering Lomond's breezes deep,
Soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep.
The cross thus formed he held on high,
With wasted hand and haggard eye,
And strange and mingled feelings woke,
While his anathema he spoke:
"Woe to the clansman, who shall view
This symbol of sepulchral yew,
Forgetful that its branches grew

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Where weep the heavens their holiest dew
On Alpine's dwelling low!
Deserter of his chieftain's trust,

He ne'er shall mingle with their dust,
But, from his sires and kindred thrust,
Each clansman's execration just

Shall doom him wrath and woe."

He paused; the word the vassals took,
With forward step and fiery look,
On high their naked brands they shook,
Their clattering targets wildly strook;
And first in murmur low,

Then, like the billow in his course,
That far to seaward finds his source,
And flings to shore his mustered force,
Burst with loud roar their answer hoarse,

"Woe to the traitor, woe!"

Ben-an's gray scalp the accents knew,
The joyous wolf from covert drew,
The exulting eagle screamed afar,
They knew the voice of Alpine's war.

Then Roderick with impatient look
From Brian's hand the symbol took :
"Speed, Malise, speed!" he said, and gave
The crosslet to his henchman brave.

"The muster-place be Lanrick mead-
Instant the time-speed, Malise, speed!
Like heath-bird, when the hawks pursue,
A barge across Loch Katrine flew :
High stood the henchman on the prow;

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So rapidly the barge-men row,

The bubbles, where they launched the boat,
Were all unbroken and afloat,

Dancing in foam and ripple still,

When it had neared the mainland hill;-
And from the silver beach's side

Still was the prow three fathom wide,
When lightly bounded to the land
The messenger of blood and brand.

Speed, Malise, speed! the dun deer's hide
On fleeter foot was never tied.

Speed, Malise, speed! such cause of haste
Thine active sinews never braced.

Bend 'gainst the steepy hill thy breast,
Burst down like torrent from its crest;
With short and springing footstep pass
The trembling bog and false morass;
Across the brook like roebuck bound,
And thread the brake like questing hound;
The crag is high, the scaur is deep,

Yet shrink not from the desperate leap:
Parched are thy burning lips and brow,
Yet by the fountain pause not now;
Herald of battle, fate, and fear,

25 Stretch onward in thy fleet career!

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