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bianchiscano combusto bestemmierebbero a4 accostumati bohnert
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wandering the dry and dusty plains, searching desperately for something to drink. Now
that he had finally
>From St. Andrews, we drove over Magus Muir. My father had announced we were "to
>post," and the see called up in my hopeful mind visions of top-boots and the pictures
>in Rowlandson's DANCE OF DEATH; but it was only a jingling cab that came to the inn
>door, such as I had driven in a thousand times at the low price of one shilling on
>the streets of Edinburgh. Beyond this disappointment, I remember nothing of that
>drive. It is a road I have often travelled, and of not one of these journeys do I
>remember any single trait. The fact has not been suffered to encroach on the truth of
>the imagination. I still see Magus Muir two hundred years ago; a desert place, quite
>uninclosed; in the midst, the primate's carriage fleeing at the gallop; the assassins
>loose-reined in pursuit, Burley Balfour, pistol in hand, among the first. No scene of
>history has ever written itself so deeply on my mind; not because Balfour, that
>questionable zealot, was an ancestral cousin of my own; not because of
the pleadings of the victim and his daughter; not even because of the live bum-bee
that flew out of Sharpe's 'bacco-box, thus clearly indicating his complicity with
Satan; nor merely because, as it was after all a crime of a fine religious flavour, it
figured in Sunday books and afforded a grateful relief from MINISTERING CHILDREN or
the MEMOIRS OF MRS. KATHATINE WINSLOWE. The figure that always fixed my attention is
that of Hackston of Rathillet, sitting in the saddle with his cloak about his mouth,
and through all that long, bungling, vociferous hurly-burly, revolving privately a
case of conscience. He would take no hand in the deed, because he had a private spite
against the victim, and "that action" must be sullied with no suggestion of a worldly
motive; on the other hand, "that action," in itself, was highly justified, he had cast
in his lot with "the actors," and he must stay there, inactive but publicly sharing
the responsibility. "You are a gentleman - you will prot
ect me!" cried the wounded old man, crawling towards him. "I will never lay a hand on
you," said Hackston, and put his cloak about his mouth. It is an old temptation with
me, to pluck away that cloak and see the face - to open that bosom and to read the
heart. With incomplete romances about Hackston, the drawers of my youth were lumbered.
I read him up in every printed book that I could lay my hands on. I even dug among the
Wodrow manuscripts, sitting shame-faced in the very room where my hero had been
tortured two centuries before, and keenly conscious of my youth in the midst of other
and (as I fondly thought) more gifted students. All was vain: that he had passed a
riotous nonage, that he was a zealot, that he twice displayed (compared with his
grotesque companions) some tincture of soldierly resolution and even of military
common sense, and that he figured memorably in the scene on Magus Muir, so much and no
more could I make out. But whenever I cast my eyes backward, it
is to see him like a landmark on the plains of history, sitting with his cloak about
his mouth, inscrutable. How small a thing creates an immortality! I do not think he
can have been a man entirely commonplace; but had he not thrown his cloak about his
mouth, or had the witnesses forgot to chronicle the action, he would not thus have
haunted the imagination of my boyhood, and to-day he would scarce delay me for a
paragraph. An incident, at once romantic and dramatic, which at once awakes the
judgment and makes a picture for the eye, how little do we realise its perdurable
power! Perhaps no one does so but the author, just as none but he appreciates the
influence of jingling words; so that he looks on upon life, with something of a covert
smile, seeing people led by what they fancy to be thoughts and what are really the
accustomed artifices of his own trade, or roused by what they take to be principles
and are really picturesque effects. In a pleasant book about a school- cl
ass club, Colonel Fergusson has recently told a little anecdote. A "Philosophical
Society" was formed by some Academy boys - among them, Co
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