Shepherd. Johnny Ballantyne!
North. Methinks I see him—his slight, slender figure, restless with a spirit that knew no rest—his face so suddenly changeful in its expression from what a stranger might have thought habitual gravity, into what his friends knew to be native there—glee irrepressible and irresistible—the very madness of mirth, James, in which the fine ether of animal spirits seemed to respire the breath of genius, and to shed through the room, or the open air, a contagion of cheerfulness, against which no heart was proof, however sullen, and no features could stand, however grim; but still all the company, Canters and Covenanters inclusive, relaxed and thawed into murmurs of merriment, even as the strong spring sunshine sends a-singing the bleak frozen moor-streams till all the wilderness is alive with music.
Shepherd. He was indeed a canty cratur—a delichtfu’ companion.
North. I hear his voice this moment within my imagination, as distinct as if it were speaking. ’Twas exceedingly pleasant....
Shepherd. What’n a lauch!
North. Soul-and-heart-felt!
Shepherd. Mony a strange story fell down stane-dead when his tongue grew mute. Thousands o’ curious, na, unaccountable anecdotes, ceased to be the day his een were closed, for he telt them, sir, as ye ken, wi’ his een mair than his lips; and his verra hauns spak, when he snapped his forefinger and his thoom, or wi’ the haill five spread out—and he had what I ca’ an elegant haun o’ fine fingers, as maist wutty men hae—manually illustrated his subjeck, till the words gaed aff, murmuring like bees frae the tips; and then Johnny was quate again for a minute or sae, till some ither freak o’ a fancy came athwart his genie, and instantly loupt intil look, lauch, or speech—or rather a’ the three thegither in ane, while Sir Walter himsel keckled on his chair, and leanin’ wi’ thae extraordinar chowks o’ his, that aften seem to me amaist as expressive as his pile o’ forehead, hoo would he fix the grey illumination o’ his een on his freen Johnny, and ca’ him by that familiar name; and by the sympathy o’ that maist capawcious o’ a’ souls, set him clean mad—richt-doun wudd a’thegither—till really, sir, he got untholeably divertin’; and folk compleened o’ pains in their sides, and sat wi’ the tears rinnin’ doun their cheeks, praying him for gudeness to haud his tongue, for that gin he didna, somebody or ither would be fa’in doun in a fit, and be carried out dead.
SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.
PAINTED BY SIR HENRY RAEBURN, R.A.