ined to preserve Abbotsford
to his children's children. At a dinner given in 1827, he threw off all
disguise, and acknowledged the authorship of the Waverly novels.

His great exertions brought on paralysis. A visit to Italy failed to
improve his condition, and he returned to die on the banks of the Tweed,
and to be laid at rest in Dreyburg Abbey. He had paid one hundred
thousand pounds of the debt, and the publishers of his works had
sufficient confidence in their sale to advance the remaining fifty
thousand pounds, the estate thus being left free of encumbrance.

Of his four children, two sons and two daughters, none left male issue.
A grandchild, the wife of Robert Hope, was permitted by Parliament to
assume the name of Scott, and her son Walter, at the age of twenty-one,
was knighted by Queen Victoria.

Edinburgh has erected to his memory a most graceful monument, and
Westminster Abbey a memorial. Visitors, under certain limitations, are
permitted to visit the mansion, to see the enchanted library, and the
famous study, to stray about the grounds where the famous writer spent
the happiest, as well as the saddest, years of his life.

[Illustration: ABBOTSFORD.]

THE PROSE MARMION.

CHAPTER I.

In all the border country that lies between England and Scotland, no
castle stands more fair than Norham. Fast by its rock-ribbed walls flows
the noble Tweed, and on its battled towers frown the hills of Cheviot.

Day was dying, St. George's banner, broad and gay, hung in the evening
breeze that scarce had power to wave it o'er the keep. Warriors on the
turrets were moving across the sky like giants, their armor flashing
back the gleam of the setting sun, when a horseman dashed forward,
spurred on his proud steed, and blew his bugle before the dark archway
of the castle. The warder, knowing well the horn he heard, hastened from
the wall and warned the captain of the guard. At once was given the
command, "Make the entrance free! Let every minstrel, every herald,
every squire, prepare to receive Lord Marmion, who waits below!" The
iron-studded gate was unbarred, the portcullis raised, the drawbridge
dropped, and proudly across it, stepped a red roan charger, bearing the
noble guest.

Lord Marmion was a stalwart knight, whose visage told of many a battle.
The scar on his brown cheek spoke of Bosworth Field, and the fire that
burned in his eye showed a spirit still proud. The lines of care on his
brow, and th