After the toasts of "The King," "The Duke of Clarence and the Royal Family," and the late "Duke of York," the chairman proposed the Theatrical Fund. He spoke with much fervour of the dramatic art, and warmly pleaded for the poor player, whose wants were not of his own making, but arose from the natural sources of sickness and old age. Mackay, the popular Scottish actor who was long identified with the character he represented in the stage version of Rob Roy, Bailie Nicol Jarvie, returned thanks on behalf of his brethren. Before sitting down he proposed the health of the Patrons of the Theatrical Fund; and then came what proved to be the event of the evening.

Lord Meadowbank begged to return the thanks of the patrons for the honour now conferred on them. He could bear testimony to the anxiety which they all felt for the interests of the institution. And now, that he might in some measure repay the gratification which had been afforded himself, he begged to propose a health, which he was sure, in an assembly of Scotsmen, would be received, not with an ordinary feeling of delight, but with rapture and enthusiasm. He knew that it would be painful to his feelings if he were to speak to him in the terms which his heart prompted; and that he had sheltered himself under his native modesty from the applause which he deserved. But the clouds were now dispelled-the dark ness visible was cleared away-and the Great Unknown (here the room literally rung with applauses, which were continued for some minutes) the minstrel of our country-the mighty magician who had rolled back the current of time, and conjured up the men and the manners which had long passed away, stood revealed to the hearts and the eyes of his affectionate and admiring countrymen. If he himself were capable of imagining all that belonged to this mighty subject-were he even able to give utterance to all that, as a friend, as a man, and as a Scotsman, he must feel regarding it; yet knowing, as he well did, that this illustrious individual was not more distinguished for his towering talents, than for those feelings which rendered such allusions ungrateful to him, however sparingly introduced, he would on that account still refrain from doing that which would otherwise be no less pleasing to him than to his audience. But this his lordship hoped he would be allowed to say—his auditors would not pardon him were he to say less-we owe to him as a people a large and heavy debt of gratitude. He it is who has opened to foreigners the grand and characteristic beauties of our country. It is

by him that our gallant ancestors and the struggles of our illustrious patriots, who fought and bled in order to secure that independence and that liberty we now enjoy, have obtained a fame no longer confined to the boundaries of a remote and comparatively obscure nation: it is he who has called down on their struggles for glory and freedom the admiration of foreign countries. He has conferred a new reputation on our national character, and bestowed on Scotland an imperishable name, were it only by her having given birth to himself. [Loud and rapturous applause showed that the audience thoroughly appreciated and endorsed this encomium.]

Sir Walter Scott certainly did not think that, in coming here to-day, he would have the task of acknowledging, before three hundred gentlemen, a secret which, considering that it was communicated to more than twenty people, was remarkably well kept. He was now before the bar of his country, and might be understood to be on trial before Lord Meadowbank as an offender; yet he was sure that every impartial jury would bring in a verdict of Not Proven. He did not now think it necessary to enter into the reasons of his long silence. A variety of reasons had led to the concealment; perhaps caprice had the greatest share in it. He had now to say, however, that the merits of these works, if they had any, and their faults, were entirely imputable to himself. (Long and loud cheering.) He was afraid to think on what he had done. "Look on't again, I dare not." He had thus far unbosomed himself, but as this would go to the public, he wished to speak seriously; and when he said that he was the author, he meant that he was the total and undivided author. With the exception of quotations, there was not a single word that was not derived from himself, or suggested in the course of his reading. The wand was now broken, and the rod buried. You will allow me further to say, with Prospero, "Your breath has filled my sails;" and to crave one single toast in the capacity of the author of these novels; and he would dedicate a bumper to the health of one who has represented some of those characters, of which he had endeavoured to give the skeleton, with a degree of liveliness which rendered him grateful. He would propose the health of his friend Bailie Nicol Jarvie (loud applause) and he was sure, that when the author of Waverley and Rob Roy drinks to Nicol Jarvie, it would be received with that degree of applause to which that gentleman has always been accustomed, and that they would take care that on the present occasion

Mr. Mackay. He had been long identified with the Bailie, and he was vain of the cognomen which he had now worn for eight years; and he questioned if any of his brethren in the Council had gi'en sic universal satisfaction to a' parties (loud laughter and applause).-Before he sat down, he begged to propose "The Lord Provost and the City of Edinburgh." Bailie Bonar returned thanks.

Mr. Patrick Robertson, one of the wittiest and most jovial of the old school of Scottish lawyers who afterwards became one of the lords of the Court of Session, and astounded everybody by publishing two volumes of poems and sonnets-next proposed the health of Mrs. Henry Siddons and success to the Theatre Royal of Edinburgh. Mr. Murray, the brother of Mrs. H. Siddons and then manager of the Theatre, returned thanks for his sister, and told how the theatre had been rescued from ruin, and all its difficulties overcome, by the production of Rob Roy a statement which might have been made by many subsequent managers in Edinburgh and Glasgow, for in these cities the play always proves attractive. The toasts which followed were: by the chairman, "Mr. Murray," who replied; "The Stewards," which Mr. Vandenhoff, the actor, acknowledged; by Lord Meadowbank, "The Earl of Fife," who replied, and concluded by giving the health of the "Edinburgh Theatrical Company;" by P. Robertson, "Lord Jeffrey," whose absence was due to ill-health; by Mr. J. Maconochie, "Mrs. Siddons, senior, the most distinguished ornament of the stage;" by Mr. Dundas of Arniston, "The Memory of Home, the Author of Douglas." The chairman next said he had too long delayed proposing a toast which must be ever hailed with pleasure in a Scottish meeting. He meant the land that bore us, the Land of Cakes; every river, every loch, every hill, from Tweed to Johnnie Groat's house-every lass in her cottage, and countess in her castle. (Applause.) So long as her sons should stand by her, as their fathers had done, she must be a happy country and a respected one. And he who would not drink a

Then Mr. H. G. Bell proposed the health of James Sheridan Knowles. The chairman followed with "Shakspeare," and "Joanna Baillie;" and after these toasts had been honoured, came "Mr. Terry" (who dramatized most of the Waverley Novels); "Allan Ramsay;" "the Patronesses of the Theatre;' "the New Theatre;" and "Henry Mackenzie, 'the man of feeling.'

Immediately afterwards Sir Walter said: "Gentlemen,-it is now wearing late, and I shall request permission to retire. Like Partridge, I may say, 'non sum qualis eram.' At my time of day, I can agree with Lord Ogilby as to his rheumatism, and say, 'There's a twinge.' I hope, therefore, you will excuse me for leaving the chair."-The worthy baronet then retired amidst long, loud, and rapturous cheering.

Mr. Patrick Robertson was then called to the chair by acclamation.

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Robertson,-"I take the liberty of asking you to fill a bumper to the very brim. There is not one of us who will not remember, while he lives, being present at this day's festival, and the declaration made this night by the gentleman who has just left the chair. That declaration has rent the veil from the features of the Great Unknown-a name which must now merge in the name of the Great Known. It will be henceforth coupled with the name of Scott, which will become familiar like a household word. We have heard the confession from his own immortal lips(tremendous cheering)—and we cannot dwell with too much or too fervent praise on the merits of one of the greatest men Scotland has produced."

The following is Sir Walter's own comment upon the proceedings at the Theatrical Fund dinner; it is an entry in his diary for February 24th, . . . "If our jests were not good, our laughter was abundant. I think I will hardly take the chair again when the company is so miscellaneous; though they all behaved perfectly well. Meadowbank taxed me with the novels, and to end that farce at once, I pleaded guilty; so that splore is ended. As to the collection-it has been much cry and little woo, as the deil said when he shore the sow.' I got away at ten at night." Lord Meadowbank had, when going into the meeting, asked Scott if he might refer to the authorship of the novels; and as the facts were pretty generally known since the failure of his publishing house, Scott answered: "Do as you like-only, don't say much about so old a story."

THE SCOTT CENTENARY.

The 15th August, 1871, was the hundredth anniversary of Sir Walter Scott's birth, and the Edinburgh Border Counties Association inaugurated the movement for a festival in honour of the memory of Scott, to be held on that occasion. For reasons of convenience, the celebration was arranged to take place on Wednesday the 9th August, and accordingly, with few exceptions, the centenary honours were paid on that day. In the principal cities of the United Kingdom, of America, the Continent, and the colonies, and, indeed, wherever there was a reading population, the genius of Scott was gratefully remembered in public and private on the hundredth anniversary of his birth. Edinburgh, being his natal city, was appropriately the centre of these rejoicings; and as the British Association held its meeting there in August, the number of strangers who attended the chief festival was considerably increased. During the day the city was crowded with visitors from far and near; flags were raised on the public buildings and on several private houses; relics of "the great magician" -his manuscripts, portraits, and other articles intimately associated with his life and workswere exhibited in the Royal Scottish Academy; and, in brief, town and people presented the appearance of a national and popular holiday. In the evening various parts of the town were illuminated and the streets were crowded with sightseers. The Scott banquet was held in the Corn Exchange, which was decorated for the occasion, and the company numbered about two thousand. Amongst the guests were the most famous representatives of literature, art, and science. The Earl of Dalkeith-one of the Scotts of Buccleuch-presided, and the vice-chairmen were Sir William Stirling-Maxwell, the Earl of Dalhousie, Lord Jerviswood, the Lord Justice-general, and the Lord-provost of Edinburgh.

As one of the best specimens of the oratory which the occasion inspired, we desire to preserve here the address of Sir W. Stirling-Maxwell, who, after the customary loyal toasts from the chair, proposed "The Memory of Sir Walter Scott."

SIR WILLIAM STIRLING-MAXWELL said:-To offer for your consideration some of the reasons why the memory of Sir Walter Scott should be honoured in an assembly composed mainly of his countrymen, and wholly of his admirers, may seem a very simple task. To state in

any adequate manner his services to his country and mankind would be a task of a very different kind. It would involve nothing less than a review of the literature which he found, the literature which he left, and the literature which a later age has created, and an examination into the part which literature holds in the vital system of a people. I need hardly say that the first and simpler method of treating the subject is the one which I propose to myself, and that in approaching even that, I am sensible how much I stand in need of your indulgence. I would first remind you of the amount of work accomplished by Scott, and the comparatively brief period in which it was performed. In 1796, his twenty-fifth year, he began to toy with literature as a translator of German ballads. But his own original writings, beginning with the House of Aspen, and ending with the Surgeon's Daughter, all saw the light between 1799 and 1831. His career as a popular poet may be said to have opened with the Lay of the Last Minstrel in 1805, and ended with Harold the Dauntless in 1817. His career as our first writer of prose fiction commenced with Waverley in 1814, and closed with his life. By the side of this ample and sparkling stream of original writing flowed another of scarcely inferior volume, consisting of miscellaneous works, editorial, critical, biographical, or historical, of which it is enough to mention the editions of Dryden and Swift, the Life of Napoleon, and the Tales of a Grandfather. As an officer of the Court of Session and sheriff of Selkirk, professional work occupied a considerable portion of his time, and so also did the mercantile concerns in which he was unfortunately a partner. For a good many years, the years of seeming financial prosperity, say from 1817 or 1818 to 1825, he was one of the most prominent figures in social life in Scotland, and one of the favourite lions of London. In these busy thirty-two years enough was done to fill the lives of ten not inconsiderable mortals. One of the Homeric heroes seemed to have reappeared upon the earth, clothed in superhuman strength and the wig and gown of a Scotch advocate. (Applause.)

As a poet, Scott, like other great masters of the lyre, may be said to have fulfilled the aspirations, and given full and triumphant truth to the thought, with which many kindred minds have been in labour, but which they had lacked strength to bring forth. In days when letters here in Scotland were still young, there was a strong disposition to gather up, and afterwards a no less strong wish to reproduce, the relics of earliest song. The ballads

ing in the character of Messrs. Lackington to one of their authors, he says that Scott, "Having quitted the Borders to seek new renown, Is coming by long quarto stages to town, And, beginning with Rokeby, the job's sure to pay; Means to do all the gentlemen's seats on the way. Now the scheme is, though none of our hackneys can beat him,

He was also in no small degree making at the same time the public taste to which that work was to be submitted. In fulness of time the Lay of the Last Minstrel was born, to fascinate a world athwart which the genius of Burns had lately flashed, but in which Hayley was probably the most popular poet, and the laurel of Dryden certainly wreathed the brows of Pye. Few critics will question the supremacy of Scott, at least in our language, in the field of metrical romance. Opinion may vary as to the rank to be assigned to that class of composition. Other poets have soared higher into the empyrean of thought, or have dived deeper into the mystery of life, but none has ever told his tale with greater breadth of light and shade, or hurried his reader along with a more genial vivacity; none has ever lit up the banquet-hall or the battle-field with more of Homeric fire, or adorned his action with a more exquisite transcript of the scenery of nature. (Applause.) It is in virtue of these qualities that a great poet holds as his own for ever the ground, historical or topographical, which his wand has once touched; and conquests of this kind are in one sense a measure of his power. In this sphere Scott is certainly the greatest of peaceful and beneficent conquerors in the world of letters. Bannockburn and Flodden are his; Melrose and Dunvegan, and many a fair domain and ancient pile between. The house of Buccleuch is not less indebted to his genius than to the valour of another Sir Walter, the favour of King James, or the good housewifery of the lady of the Lay. Of this city, his own romantic town, he is, in our legal language, the unquestioned feudal superior. It is curious now to turn to his friend Moore's playful allusions to these poetical conquests at

To start a new poet through Highgate to meet him; Who by means of quick proofs, no revises, long coaches, May do a few villas before Scott approaches. Indeed, if our Pegasus be not curst shabby, He'll reach without foundering at least Woburn Abbey." It is needless to remind you that ere the fresh poet alighted at Woburn gate Scott had pursued his raid far into England, and with new arms had annexed Ashby and Kenilworth, Whitefriars and Whitehall. (Applause.) Had Scott written nothing but his lyrics he would still hold a distinguished place in letters. "Rosabelle," "Lochinvar," "Jock o' Hazeldean," "Norah's Vow," and "The Pibroch of Donuil Dhu" will be sung and loved as long as tenderness and melody, pith and vigour, archness, gaiety, and delicate humour shall please the ear, inspire the fancy, and touch the heart. These and other songs of Scott have made the tour of the world with the songs of Burns, and haunt the memory of most men who love poetry and speak English. They are the very songs to be sung in a strange land by exiles not much given to weeping and hanging their harps on willows, and who yet at Vancouver or Hong-Kong very steadily think of Scotland, knowing, or perhaps not knowing, how greatly the Scotland to which their hearts turn is the intellectual creation of Scott. It is the poet's best reward, we are told by Longfellow, to find his song in the heart of a friend. Scott, like Longfellow himself, is a poet who enjoys "love, honour, and obedience, troops of friends." One of the latest of his stranger-friends whom I have met with turned up in North-Eastern Siberia. If you will look into the pleasant tent-life in that country of Mr. George Kennan, an American surveyor, you will find him discovering analogies between the scenery around him and the Western Highlands of Scott's poetry, and recording how he and his party made the woodlands of Kamtschatka re-echo to the wild and unaccustomed war-notes of "Bonnie Dundee." I would now ask you to look at Scott as a writer of prose fiction, who, from the stores of his learning and the spring of his imagination, fed for sixteen years the fancy of the civilized world, ministering no less to the social and moral well-being than to the innocent gaiety of