ONCE saw a photograph of Mr. Lang in which his head was surmounted by a cloth cap, he was dressed in an easy fitting tweed jacket, his legs were encased in fishing stockings, and in his hand he held a fishing-rod. That photograph led me to wonder how many different portraits might be taken of the subject. He might be "took," for example, in the editorial sanctum of the Daily News whisking off a leading article on, say, Austin Dobson's latest volume of poems, or in scarlet jacket and with open mouth crying "Fore!" to some strollers on St. Andrews links, or again, in the stately halls of that Fifeshire Academe, surrounded by grave and reverend signiors, we might snap-shot him lecturing on Natural Theology, or again, as president of the Folk-lore Society, we might take him delivering his inaugural address to the members on the diffusion and variants of the ancient tale of "Cinderella and her Slipper," or some cognate subject. "A woman's preaching," said Dr. Johnson, "is like a dog's walking on his hind legs. You are not surprised to find it done well, you are surprised to find it done at all." But, in the case of Mr. Lang, you are not surprised to find him writing on any subject under the sun, and you know that he will do it well. Natural Theology and the "Bloody Doctor,

* For the benefit of the uninitiated it may be explained that this is not a sanguinary epithet applied to a medical man, but the cognomen of a fly said to be of much efficacy in enticing the wary

trout.

Homer and the Cock-Lane Ghost, Golf and Anthropology, Angling Sketches and ballads of Aldines and Elzevirs is there anything, I wonder, that he could not write about? We all remember that celebrated Borderer who had to choose between a muckle-mou'd wife and a hanging, but I feel sure, that if, in place of a matrimonial alternative, Mr. Lang, in order to escape capital punishment, had to write a poem on the platinum mines of the Ural mountains, he would, in fifteen minutes turn out a delicate, finished, "naitral-like" little piece, even on that metallic and utilitarian subject. And yet it must be said that this versatility has its drawbacks. Mr. Lang is one of the most prolific of literary men, and this fact makes it a popular belief that he is just a little bit of a dilettante. He touches and adorns everything, saith the man in the street, but then he only touches it. And certainly it does not require a great stretch of imagination to fancy Thomas Carlyle laying Ballades in Blue China," and remarking in his own dry way, "Andra, when are you going to do some wark."

Mr. Lang is a Borderer, of course, or he would not be dealt with here. He is a son of the Forest, and Selkirk claims him for her own. We are sometimes apt to forget that Mr. Lang is a Scotsman at all, for Oxford and the Daily News have had their due effect on him, and he has but little of the proverbial perfervidum

ingenium, but the good folks of Selkirk never forget that he is one of their distinguished natives, and a few years ago, when he opened their new Public Library they made him "lick the birse" which operation was intended not only to signify that Mr. Lang had been enrolled among the free-men of the capital of the Forest, but to proclaim to all men that he was a Souter.

And Mr. Lang was not ungrateful for the honour done to him. If you go into Selkirk Library (it was once the County jail. "To what good uses may we come, Horatio,") and take down a book or two, you will perhaps see on their title pages the words, "With the publishers' compliments," and you wonder why

When one considers the extent and variety of Mr. Lang's literary sympathies, it is curious, yet not perhaps inexplicable, that of the literature of the Kailyaird he has a somewhat poor opinion. Over the genial virility of Mr. Crockett, and Robert Louis Stevenson, he can wax enthusiastic, but for the crowd of writers who have of late given us such a plethora of idylls and character sketches of the Scottish peasantry, he has little to say. Truth to tell, it is the "big bow-wow style" in literature, for which, with Sir Walter, he has most liking, and like the author of "Old Mortality," his sympathies are not with the Whigs.

The mention of Scott's name leads one to

great London publishers should be mindful of the library of an obscure Scottish town until the courteous librarian tells you that the books were presented by Mr. Lang. Thus doth the jaded reviewer get rid of an incubus of literature to his own relief, and doubtless to the benefit of the reading public of Selkirk. It was believed at one time that Mr. Lang's statue would yet adorn the market place of the town, for he was to write his magnum opus and was to stand in imperishable stone between Sir Walter and Mungo Park, where the people might gaze upon their great triumvirate; but the magnum opus has never come, and the site is not fenced in

yet.

Selkirk

refer to the beautiful edition of the Waverley Novels which Mr. Lang has edited for Mr. Nimmo. It is true that he has not cast so much new light on these ever popular books as was expected, but we are duly grateful for the handsome volumes with their delightful introductions and beautiful etchings. There may be more elaborately got up, but there is no more handsome set than the Border Edition. It is gratifying to know that Mr. Lang is following up his labours on the novels with an edition of Lockhart's Life of Scott. Certainly, if there is room for anything, it is a new edition of that great work, for the journal and the letters are now available to fill up lacunæ and elaborate the

chronicle of Sir Walter's son-in-law. Mr. Lang is also writing a biographical sketch of Lockhart, a work which one is astonished was not done long ago, and if any readers of the Border Magazine have any letters of Sir Walter's Boswell, I fancy Mr Lang would not object to peruse them.

But the editing of the Waverley Novels is only one of Mr. Lang's literary tasks. To mention all his work would require almost an entire copy of the Border Magazine, and when the bibliographer of the literature of the nineteenth century comes to the letter L he has his work cut out for him. I cannot pretend to anything like a complete knowledge of Mr. Lang's books, but his work, I fancy, began with

read the review of that novel which appeared in the March number, a review written by the worthy daughter of a worthy sire. And then we have the Gifford Lectures which Mr. Lang delivered at St. Andrews and which did not create a sensation, we have his studies in the domain of folk-lore, we have his book on St. Andrews, and we have his fairy tale anthologies. Our author once compared anthologists to literary "cadgers" and he did not intend it as a compliment to the anthologists, but Mr. Lang has "cadged" to some purpose, and multitudes of children reverence him as the bookish godfather of Christmastide.

This is a somewhat varied and lengthy list of works yet it is not exhaustive. Add to it

delicate hot-house plants like "Rhymes à la Mode" and "Ballades in Blue China" which in time blossomed into "Grass of Parnassus " and sundry marvellous translations of French verse. Of hardier growth were his fine translation, with Professor Butcher, of Homer's Iliad, and his "Helen of Troy." In the ploughed field of politics Mr. Lang reaped, his "Life of Lord Iddesleigh," and to continue the agricultural simile he has now blossomed out as a novelist on his own account. The firm which produced the "The World's Desire" has been broken up and we are inclined to think that the partners do better in separate premises. But I scarcely require to mention "A Monk of Fife" for the readers of the Border Magazine must all have

Selkirk.

innumerable "leaders" in the Daily News, and many articles scattered throughout nearly every magazine of any importance on either side the Atlantic and you feel inclined to exclaim as Professor Huxley did when he read the first number of the Review of Reviews, "Mashallah! It is wonderful." Pity, is it not, that the bulk of it is evanescent, ephemeral, the creature of a day, and that so much literary industry and kindly and pleasurable writing is not to entitle the author to a place among the immortals.

Space does not permit me to do more than refer briefly to Mr. Lang's Border poems. There are, I think, some half-a-dozen of them, of which that entitled "Twilight on Tweed" is the most familiar. It is a perfect little picture, every

detail true and the words themselves "wan "fabled"-"dusky" "broods" all conveying the very atmosphere of the well known scene. And then there are "April on Tweed," and the sonnet on Sunset in Yarrow," and "A Ballade of the Tweed." The last is written in Lowland Scots and the first verse may be quoted.

"The ferox rins in rough Loch Awe,

A weary cry frae ony toun,
The Spey that loups o'er linn an' fa',
They praise a' ither streams aboon ;
They boast their braes o' bonny Doon,
Gie me to hear the ringing reel
Where shilfas sing, and cushats croon
By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiestiel."

Those of us who know the Teviot below Hawick will feel inclined to

sentiment of the envoy.

"Deil tak' the dirty trading loon

re-echo the

Wad gar the water ca' his wheel,
And drift his dyes and poison doun
By fair Tweedside at Ashiestiel !"

The poem that I like best is, however, that entitled "The Last Cast, the Angler's Apology," and a few verses from it may fittingly conclude this paper.

"Just one cast more! how many a year,

Beside how many a pool and stream,
Beneath the falling leaves and sere,

I've sighed, reeled-up and dreamed my dream!

Dreamed of the sport since April first,

Her hands fulfilled with flowers and snow,
Adown the pastoral valleys burst

Where Ettrick and where Teviot flow.

(Continued).

Fought 19th August, 1388.

"A Douglas dead his name hath won the field. ' N the side of the Scots the commotion approached to something like panic, but only for a few brief moments. A sudden rushing to and fro, rousing of comrades, clutching of weapons, donning of helmets, and the Scot was himself again, cool and resolute in the face of danger, unflinching and formidable in presence of an enemy.

The English knights and men-at-arms dismounted, leaving their horses to the care of servants while they prepared to fight on foot. The spear was then the chief weapon on which they depended for a night attack. There was one banner for each of the many divisions of the English army, so that even in the fading light they presented an imposing spectacle. It was a rash and highly imprudent act on the part of Hotspur to commence the attack without having rested his followers, who had that day. walked or ridden about thirty miles without any rest or proper refreshment. Doubtless, however, the vow which he made in the presence of his followers, and before Douglas at Newcastle, to reclaim his lost trophies, was uppermost in his mind, and the sacredness of such a duty would brook no delay. The stain which Douglas had cast upon his prowess must be effaced. He was eager, also, to avail himself at once of whatever advantage he seemed to possess over the Scots, in taking them by surprise. His admirable tact, as general, was displayed in a little manoeuvre which, however, though well conceived, proved unnecessary and futile. He despatched Sir Thomas Umphreville, together with a number of other distinguished knights and a body of troops, to intercept the Scots in their expected flight northward, in order thus to secure the spoil and "holde them in yt they fled not awaye."

Despite the cautious movements of the English host and the suddenness of their attack on the "slumbering Scots," in an incredibly short time the latter were ready for the fight. The hurry and commotion, consequent on the sudden surprise, caused some confusion in the Scottish ranks, and this told against them even when the battle raged most keenly. Many, indeed, were only partially armed, and thus placed at a decided disadvantage. The donning of the cumbrous armour, the "closing up" of the rivets, and the marshalling of the various divisions, had all to be done with the utmost expedition, while shouts