The Prose Marmion | Page 2

offers of release from his creditors, and began to
pay the debt by means of his pen, determined 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 the threads of silver in his black curling hair, spoke
less of age than of toil. The square-turned joints, the evident strength of
body and limb, bespoke not a carpet-knight, but a grim champion.
From head to foot, he was clad in mail of Milan steel. His helmet of
embossed gold hung at the saddle-bow. A falcon hovered in the crest,
and soared on the azure field of the noble lord's shield, above the motto,
"Who checks at me, to death is dight!"
The horse was as richly clad as its rider. The reins were embroidered in
blue, and ribbons of the same color decked the arched neck and mane.
The housings were of blue trapped with gold.
Behind the leader, rode gallant squires of noble name. Though still a
squire, each had well earned knighthood. Each could tame a war horse,
draw a bow, wield a sword, dance in the hall, carve at the board, frame
love ditties, and sing them to fair ladies.

Next in the train, came four men-at-arms: two carried halbert, bill, axe,
and lance; a third led the sumpter mules and the ambling palfrey, which
served to bear Lord Marmion when he wished to relieve his battle steed;
the most trusty of the four held on high the pennon, furled in its glossy
blue streamers. Last were twenty yeomen, two and two, in blue jerkins,
black hose, and wearing falcons embroidered on each breast. At their
belts hung quivers, and in their hands were boar-spears, tough and
strong. They knew the art of hunting by lake or in wood, could bend a
six-foot bow, or, at the behest of their lord, send far the cloth-yard
spear.
To welcome Marmion, the Flower of English Chivalry, the soldiers of
the guard of Norham stood in the castle yard, with reversed pike and
spear. Minstrels and trumpeters were there, the welcome was prepared,
and as the train entered, a clang sounded through turret and tower, such
as the old castle had seldom heard.
Trumpets flourished, the martial airs rang out as Marmion crossed the
court, scattering angels among the ranks. Loud rose the cry:
"Welcome to Norham, Marmion! Stout heart and open