Scotland/Scots > Wilson's tales of the Borders and of Scotland > Volume 3

32
TALKS OP THE BOKDEKS.
not look kindly on that face, beautiful as it is, with that-
flashing eye and joyful expression. No, ’twas not till my
lady grew distractedly fond of her that he looked sweetly
on her (in the right way) for the love she gave to and got
from her he loved the best of all the world. Oh! ’twas a
beautiful sight, sir, those women. The rose of the west
was a match for the lily of the east; then the pensive
sweetness of the one, and the innocent light-heartedness of
the other, met and mingled in a friendship without guile—
a love without envy.”
“Your last visit, Francis,” I said, with a smile which I
could not conceal, “ must have been to the poets of the
library.”
“ ’Tis only truth, sir,” resumed he. “ When one sees a
beautiful thing and feels the beauty—a privilege which
is probably never denied at all times to any of God’s crea¬
tures, and does not belong exclusively to the high born or
the learned—he is a poet, be he a gauger or a butler. Aye,
sir, a man may be a poet when his nose is right over the
mouth of a bottle of burgundy, vintage ’81.”
“ And not very poetical when he reflects that there is
not a bottle left in the house,” said I.
“He has still ‘the pleasures of hope,’” rejoined Francis,
with a little newborn moisture on his dry lips.
“Well,” rejoined I, as I began to yawn from lure want
of sleep, “ there is at least little of either poetry o ’pleasure
in ‘hope deferred.’ We will moisten these dry legends of
the Bernards by a little of that burgundy of theirs now.”
And this chronicler of the Bernards, as well as of some¬
thing better than small beer, soon handed me a large glass¬
ful of this prince of wines.
“ You will require all the benefit of that, sir,” said he,
“ if I am to go on with my story.”
“ I’m not afraid,” said I, listlessly, “ after what I have
read of the Grierson horrors.”