cloud of Saxon war,
That up the lake comes winding far!"

And does the blood of the youthful listener still thrill as he thinks of
the glory of that cavalcade, till he feels, as we used of old, that--

"'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,
One glance at their array."

And does he still throw the old pathos into the lines,--

"Where, where was Roderick then!
One blast upon his bugle horn
Were worth a thousand men."

Probably he does not. This is all doubtless very old-fashioned, and we
doubt if the modern school would quite rise to the situation, even when
Roderick makes himself known to Fitz-James, "And, stranger, I am
Roderick Dhu;" but in the days we wot of, you and I, this was the most
thrilling climax in all literature. Have the boys outgrown "Ivanhoe"
too? And do they prefer to hear Du Chaillu tell about the gorillas he
invented, or go with Jules Verne twenty thousand leagues under the sea?
We hope not, for their sakes, but wish that they may enjoy the
tournament as we did, and delight in the "clang of the armor," "the
lifting of the vizor," and everything connected with "the lists." We
trust, too, that they will walk with Sir Walter everywhere throughout
the Highlands, until every mount and loch and ruined castle has become
their own; that they will follow poor Jeanie Deans through the "Heart of
Mid-Lothian;" that they will shed true, heartfelt tears over
"Kenilworth," and love as did the older generations the "Bride of
Lammermoor."

Let us be steadfast in our love of the old books; let us never grow
weary of the world-read classics. Who cares for the books of the year?
Next twelvemonth we shall not know whether we have read them or not; but
what a fadeless possession is the memory of one of the world-books! Life
is too brief to be spent upon ephemera; let us go back from our
wanderings in the wilderness of new books, and draw nearer to the wells
of English undefiled.

To this end let us study this man "than his brethren taller and
fairer,"--this kingly Sir Walter of the ancient line.

He says that "every Scotchman has a pedigree." It is a national
prerogative, as inalienable as his pride and his poverty. Sir Walter's
pedigree was gentle, he being connected, though remotely, with ancient
families upon both sides of the house. He was lineally descended from
Auld Watt, an ancient chieftain whose name he often made ring in border
ballads. He was one of twelve children, and was not speciall