In 1852 Mr. Scott was married to Miss Mary Jane Wilson, of Newark.  They were the parents of three children, two of whom are now living.  His first wife died in 1858, and he subsequently married Miss Annie Elizabeth Craig, who, with their four children, still survives him.

In early life Mr. Scott began to write poetry, and continued to write for the local newspapers under the nom de plume of “Anselmo,” and the Philadelphia Dollar Newspaper during the time he was engaged in teaching school, and occasionally for the county papers until the close of his life.

For many years Mr. Scott enjoyed the friendship of the literati of Newark, Delaware, and was one of a large number of poetical writers who contributed to the columns of the Philadelphia Dollar Newspaper, with several of whom he enjoyed a personal acquaintance, and with several others of whom he carried on a literary correspondence for several years.

Mr. Scott, though not a voluminous writer, was the author of a considerable number of poems, all of which were of a highly intellectual character.

THE FORCED ALLIANCE.

    Can earthly commerce hush the music of the heart, and shut the door
    of memory on a friend?

    —­Miss Whittlesey.

Ah, that our natural wants and best affections
  Should thus in fierce, unnatural conflict struggle! 
Ah, that the spirit and its dear connections,
Whose derelictions merit such corrections,
  Must bear the illicit smuggle!

We would it were not so.  This compromising,
  Which cold, severe necessity hath bidden,
Of higher natures, with the wants arising
From poor humanity—­’tis a sympathizing
  That may not all be hidden.

We both have learned there is a high soul feeling,
  That lifts the heart towards the stars and Heaven;
And one of us, there is a sad congealing
Of sweet affection!—­a veil the rock concealing,
  Where hearts are rent and riven.

Ah, sorrow, change and death hold sad dominion;
  And arbitrary fate is earth’s arbiter;
The adverse elements of a marvelous union,
With counter-currents vex the spirit’s pinion,
  When high intents invite her.

It is a truth, the sad, unwelcome hearing
  May wring the spirit with a quivering pain;
Our hearts are half of earth, and the careering
Of highest thoughts in its divinest daring,
Is but a momentary, blissful sharing,
  That flutters back again.

It may be ours to tread the vale of sorrow,
  Or wander withering in the maze of doubt,
Anticipating scarce a joy to-morrow,
Save what from the pale lamp of Song we borrow—­
  That will not all go out.

Yes! there are bosom-chords—­thanks to the Giver! 
  The sad, low whisperings of which can never
Be all subdued, though they may shake and shiver
With death and coldness, if we brave the river
  With wise and strong endeavor.