arms,
And we will meet them!"

What is a people without pride? But let them know that its root rests on
noble pillars; and in the whole range of strength and stateliness, what
pillars are there stronger and statelier than those glorious two--Genius
and Liberty? Here valour has fought--here philosophy has meditated--here
poetry has sung. Are not our living yet as brave as our dead? All wisdom
has not perished with the sages to whom we have built or are building
monumental tombs. The muses yet love to breathe the pure mountain-air of
Caledon. And have we not amongst us one myriad-minded man, whose name,
without offence to that high-priest of nature, or his devoutest
worshippers, may flow from our lips even when they utter that of
SHAKESPEARE?

The Queen of the North has evaporated--and we again have a glimpse of
the Highlands. But where's the Sun? We know not in what airt to look for
him, for who knows but it may now be afternoon? It is almost dark enough
for evening--and if it be not far on in the day, then we shall have
thunder. What saith our repeater? One o'clock. Usually the brightest
hour of all the twelve--but anything but bright at this moment. Can
there be an eclipse going on--an earthquake at his toilette--or merely a
brewing of storm? Let us consult our almanac. No eclipse set down for
to-day--the old earthquake dwells in the neighbourhood of Comrie, and
has never been known to journey thus far north--besides, he has for some
years been bed-ridden; argal, there is about to be a storm. What a fool
of a land-tortoise were we to crawl up to the top of a mountain, when we
might have taken our choice of half-a-dozen glens with cottages in them
every other mile, and a village at the end of each with a comfortable
Change-house! And up which of its sides, pray, was it that we crawled?
Not this one--for it is as steep as a church--and we never in our life
peeped over the brink of an uglier abyss. Ay, Mister Merlin, 'tis wise
of you to be flying home into your crevice--put your head below your
wing, and do cease that cry.--Croak! croak! croak! Where is the sooty
sinner? We hear he is on the wing--but he either sees or smells us,
probably both, and the horrid gurgle in his throat is choked by some
cloud. Surely that was the sughing of wings! A Bird! alighting within
fifty yards of us--and, from his mode of folding his wings--an Eagle!
This is too much--within fifty yards of an Eagle on his own
mountain-top. Is he b