“‘Forward, sons of Ivor,’ cried their chief, ’or the Camerons will draw the first blood!’ They rushed on with a tremendous yell.

“The rest is well known.  The horses, who were commanded to charge the advancing Highlanders in the flank, received an irregular fire from their fusees as they ran on, and, seized with a disgraceful panic, wavered, halted, disbanded, and galloped from the field.  The artillerymen, deserted by the cavalry, fled after discharging their pieces, and the Highlanders, who dropped their guns when fired, and drew their broadswords, rushed with headlong fury against the infantry.
    . . . . . . . . . .
    . . 
“The English infantry, trained in the wars in Flanders, stood their ground with great courage.  But their extended files were pierced and broken in many places by the close masses of the clans; and in the personal struggle which ensued, the nature of the Highlanders’ weapons, and their extraordinary fierceness and activity, gave them a decided superiority over those who had been accustomed to trust much to their array and discipline, and felt that the one was broken and the other useless.
    . . . . . . . . . .
    . . 
“Loud shouts now echoed over the whole field.  The battle was fought and won, and the whole baggage, artillery, and military stores of the regular army remained a possession of the victors.  Never was a victory more complete.”

Such is Scott’s picture of the battle of Prestonpans.  And throughout the whole book we have wonderful pictures of Scottish life as it then was—­pictures of robbers’ caves, and chieftains’ halls, of the chiefs themselves, and their followers, of mountain, loch, and glen, all drawn with such a true and living touch that we cannot forget them.

After Waverley other novels followed fast, each one adding to the reputation of the unknown author, and now, from the name of the first, we call them all the Waverley Novels.

Scott’s was one of the most wonderful successes—­perhaps the most wonderful—­that has ever been known in our literature.  “As long as Sir Walter Scott wrote poetry,” said a friend, “there was neither man nor woman ever thought of either reading or writing anything but poetry.  But the instant that he gave over writing poetry, there was neither man nor woman ever read it more!  All turned to tales and novels."*

James Hogg.

Everybody read The Novels, from the King to the shepherd.  Friends, money, and fame came tumbling in upon the author.  He had refused to be made Poet Laureate, and passed the honor on to Southey, but he accepted a baronetcy.  He added wing after wing to his beautiful house, and acre after acre to his land, and rejoiced in being laird of Abbotsford.

The speed with which Scott wrote was marvelous.  His house was always full of visitors, yet he always had time to entertain them.  He was never known to refuse to see a friend, gentle or simple, and was courteous even to the bores who daily invaded his home.  He had unbounded energy.  He rose early in the morning, and before the rest of the family was astir had finished more than half of his daily task of writing.  Thus by twelve o’clock he was free to entertain his guests.