ENERAL GRANT MACKENZIE was a somewhat impulsive man. It is the nature of the Celt to be impulsive. His nervous system is far more finely strung than that of the plethoric or adipose Saxon, and it vibrates to the slightest breath of emotion. Mind, I talk of the ideal Celt—be he Irish or Scotch—and General Grant Mackenzie was an ideal Celt. And sitting here with my good guitar on my knee, I cannot help comparing a nature like his to just such a beautiful stringed instrument as this. What a world of fine feeling lies herein; what a wealth of poetry, what sadness, what tenderness—ay, and what passion as well! Behold, on this music-stand lies a big old book—a book with a story to it, for it belonged to my unfortunate ancestor Symon Fraser of Lovat, who was beheaded on Tower Hill. It is Highland music all, and sweet to me are its mournful laments as breathed by my sad guitar; but—I turn a leaf—and here is a battle-piece. Ha! the instrument hath lost its sadness, or only here and there come wailing notes like moans of the wounded amidst the hurry, the scurry, the dashing, and the clashing of this terrible tulzie. Can’t you see the claymores glitter? Can’t you see the tartans wave, and nodding plumes among the rolling smoke? Oh, I can. Seems as if the guitar would burst its very strings; but, the battle is over—cry of vanquished, shout of victor, all are hushed. And now comes the ghostly music of the coronach: they are burying the dead. And the instrument appears to sob, to weep, till the sweet low song of grief in cadence dies.
A nature like that of Grant Mackenzie, then, or of his son—for both seemed cast in the same mould—needs a well-trained, well-balanced mind to guide and restrain it; for there are few occasions indeed in this world when one dares lay bare his soul and feelings even to his best friends.
The day after MʻHearty’s visit to Jack, the young post-captain, with his friend Tom Fairlie, was just finishing breakfast, when in dashed the general. Next minute his son was pressed against his breast just as if he had been a child.
Jack had spilt his tea and knocked over a chair in his hurry to get to his father; but what did that matter? So there they stood looking at each other for a moment, the tears in both their eyes.
Maybe the old general was a trifle ashamed of such weakness, for next moment he burst into a merry laugh.
“Why, Jack, my brave boy,” he cried, “there are only two arms between the pair of us. But yours will get well; mine, alas, is in the grave!”
Flora came up now, and Jack seemed delighted to see her.
“And here,” he said, “here, Flora, is the best friend I have in the world—Tom Fairlie.—Nay, never blush, Tom, my brother.—He it was, Flora, who helped to take me below after I got hit; and when even the surgeon—grand old fellow MʻHearty! father, you shall know him—gave me up, Tom stuck to me, and he has been nursing me ever since as if I were a child. Ah, Flora, there is no friendship on earth so true, and no love either, as that man bears for man.”
Jack looked at his sister as he spoke, and that glance told her he knew all.
“Father, I had almost forgotten to tell you of my espousal.”