But I fear that I have already wearied the reader, and so must refrain.
Stay though, one word about our Highland heather—one word and I have done. I have found both this and heath growing in England, but never in the same savage luxuriance as on the wilds of the Grampian range. Here you can wander in it waist-deep, if you are not afraid of snakes, and this Erica cineria you will find of every shade, from white—rare—to pink and darkest crimson:—
“Those wastes of heath
That stretch for leagues to lure the bee,
Where the wild bird, on pinions strong,
Wheels round, and pours his piping song,
And timid creatures wander free.”
I trust I may be forgiven for making all these poetical quotations, but as I commenced with one from the poet Campbell, so must I end with one from the selfsame bard. It is of the purple heath and heather he is thinking when he writes:—
“I love you for lulling me back into dreams
Of the blue Highland mountains, and echoing streams,
And of birchen glades breathing their balm.
While the deer is seen glancing in sunshine remote,
And the deep-mellow gush of the wood-pigeon’s note,
Makes music that sweetens the calm.”
Chapter Twenty Five.
A Chapter about Children—Children in Bouquets—Children by the “sad sea-wave”—sweet maudie brewer—wee dickie ellis—the miner’s sprite.
“On these laughing rosy faces
There are no deep lines of sin;
None of passion’s dreary traces,
That betray the wounds within.”
Tupper.