Author.—A most touching anecdote!—What magnanimous fellows!
Grant.—Their names should have been written by the hand of Fame herself, in letters of the purest and most imperishable gold!—Yet they have been allowed to sink into the sea of forgetfulness, and,
“Like the snow-falls in the river,
A moment white, then gone for ever.”
they have melted into oblivion—so far, at least, as this world is concerned.
Clifford.—Yes; they sleep unremembered, whilst every lily-livered cobler, or tailor, who has handled his awl, or his bodkin, with no more peril to his person than may have lain on the point of one or other of these formidable weapons, has his tombstone—his death’s head and cross-bones—and his attendant cherubims—as well as his text and his epitaph.
Serjeant.—Very true, sir—very true. What have such chields as these to do with fame? But for all that, we see fame arise to the silliest men, and from the most trifling causes.
Grant.—Right, Archy. For instance, I remember a certain Highlander, who gained his fame in a way that may perhaps make you envious—for it is the tale of your unwhisperables that has brought him to my mind.
Serjeant.—Aye, sir!—What was his story?
Grant.—Why, the hero was a certain Rory Maccraw, who, despising the kilt which he had worn all his life, resolved, at all risks, to figure in a pair of those elegant emblems of civilization called breeches. At the present day, one may travel from the Tweed to the Pentland Firth without seeing such a thing as a kilt; but at the time of which I am now speaking, anything in the shape of breeches was just as rarely to be seen as the kilt is now. Rory had a pair made for him in some distant town, where, as they would say in Ireland, he had not been by when his measure was taken, and having put them on, he left his glen to go to a market. It was observed by his neighbours, that he never before took so long a time to walk the same distance, and, from his strange and stately manner of strutting, they attributed this circumstance to the pride he felt in his new garments. Arrived at the market, the expectation he had indulged in, that he was to excite the wonder and envy of all the people there, did not deceive him. He was followed, and stared at, and admired, and questioned wherever he went. If a dancing bear had waddled through the fair, he could not have had half the number of people after him. But like most of those who envy the lot of their neighbours, these good folks only saw the outside of things, and knew not the misery which was covered by this fair external show. In the midst of their admiration, poor Rory was in torture. He would have given all he was worth, unmentionables and all, to have got rid of the admiring crowds that followed him; and at last, long before he had done half his business in the market—for as to pleasure, he could taste none of it—he, the envied, the observed of all observers, watched his opportunity to steal hobbling away down a back lane, whence he went limping in agony into the country. There, seating himself by the public way-side, regardless of what eyes might behold him, he pulled off the instruments of his suffering, and hanging them on the end of his staff, he placed it over his shoulder, and so trudged his way homeward, in defiance of the taunts, gibes, and laughter of the crowds which he fell in with by the way. But his fame was established; and ever afterwards he went by the name of Peter Breeks.