followed. He was threatened with brain fever, and only quieted with opiates. But this danger was tided over, and he reached Germany, somewhat improved, but far from being a well man. He was

received with the utmost cordiality there, and entered upon his new duties with enthusiasm. Some important matters came before him almost immediately, which he managed with ability and tact. But the disease he labored under made rapid progress from the time of his arrival at Berlin, and before a year had passed, his death was announced to his startled friends and countrymen. He died sitting in an armchair in his library, without warning, although his death was not entirely unexpected. "I must be away," were the last words he uttered.

"Friend, but yesterday the bells
Rang for thee their loud farewells;
And to-day they toll for thee
Lying dead beyond the sea,
Lying dead among thy books,

The peace of God in all thy looks!"

IAN

incident, illustrating the pride of the common people of Scotland in their most popular author. He said:

"Not long ago, I was travelling from Aberdeen to Perth. A man sitting opposite studied me for a minute, and then, evidently being convinced that I had average intelligence, and could appreciate a great sight if I saw it, he said, 'If you will stand up with me at the window, I will show you something in a minute; you will only get a glimpse suddenly and for an instant.' I stood. He said, 'Can you see that?' I saw some smoke, and said so. 'That's Kirriemuir,' he answered. I sat down, and he sat opposite me, and watched my face to see that the fact that I had had a glimpse of Kirriemuir, or rather of its smoke, was one I thoroughly appreciated, and would carry in retentive memory for the rest of my life. Then I said, 'Mr. Barrie was born there.' 'Yes,' he said, 'he was; and I was born there myself."

This intense loyalty to every thing Scotch, this pride in the achievements of any countryman, this appreciation of the national element in literature, is one of the most pleasing traits of the Scotch character, though it has its humorous side, and has

roused inextinguishable laughter in its day. Much as the outside world praises and prizes the best work of such men as Stevenson, Barrie, Ian Maclaren, and others, it is only people who have lived with and loved the bracken and the heather, who feel its subtlest charm. This fragrance is in every leaf of these Scottish stories, and it cannot stir the alien heart as it does that of the native. What a classic land its writers have made of Scotland, the wild and rugged, and barren little spot! The land touched by the pen of Scott is as classic as Greece, that connected with the life of Burns no less so, and the home and haunts of Carlyle, if loved by a lesser number, are loved just as passionately. And now we have a new Delphian vale in Thrums or Kirriemuir, and still another in Drumtochty. Time will test the fame of these new men, and prove their staying qualities, but at present they really seem to have made a high bid for continued favor, in the hearts of so steadfast a people as the Scotch.

James Matthew Barrie was born in Kirriemuir on May 9, 1860. Kirriemuir is sixty miles north of Edinburgh, and Mr. Barrie has made all the world familiar with the little secluded hamlet, by his descriptions of Thrums and its inhabitants. We know these people as we do our personal friends, and if we could but sit at the window in Thrums we could call many of their names as they pass by. Leeby and Jess, alas! we should not see; they are asleep under the brachen and the moss on the hill overlooking Kirriemuir, and that little burgh seems thinly inhabited now that they are gone.

The day of James Barrie's birth was always remem