Ochils--a middle-sized Grampian.
Great painters and poets know that power lies not in mere measurable
bulk. Atlas, it is true, is a giant, and he has need to be so,
supporting the globe. So is Andes; but his strength has never been put
to proof, as he carries but clouds. The Cordilleras--but we must not be
personal--so suffice it to say, that soul, not size, equally in
mountains and in men, is and inspires the true sublime. Mont Blanc might
be as big again; but what then, if without his glaciers?

These mountains are neither immense nor enormous--nor are there any such
in the British Isles. Look for a few of the highest on Riddell's
ingenious Scale--in Scotland Ben-nevis, Helvellyn in England, in Ireland
the Reeks; and you see that they are mere mole-hills to Chimborazo.
Nevertheless, they are the hills of the Eagle. And think ye not that an
Eagle glorifies the sky more than a Condor? That Vulture--for Vulture he
is--flies league-high--the Golden Eagle is satisfied to poise himself
half a mile above the loch, which, judged by the rapidity of its long
river's flow, may be based a thousand feet or more above the level of
the sea. From that height methinks the Bird-Royal, with the golden eye,
can see the rising and the setting sun, and his march on the meridian,
without a telescope. If ever he fly by night--and we think we have seen
a shadow passing the stars that was on the wing of life--he must be a
rare astronomer.

"High from the summit of a craggy cliff
Hung o'er the deep, such as amazing frown
On utmost Kilda's shore, whose lonely race
Resign the setting sun to Indian worlds,
The Royal Eagle rears his vigorous young,
Strong-pounced and burning with paternal fire.
Now fit to raise a kingdom of their own
He drives them from his fort, the towering seat
For ages of his empire; which in peace
Unstain'd he holds, while many a league to sea
He wings his course, and preys in distant isles."

Do you long for wings, and envy the Eagle? Not if you be wise. Alas!
such is human nature, that in one year's time the novelty of pinions
would be over, and you would skim undelighted the edges of the clouds.
Why do we think it a glorious thing to fly from the summit of some
inland mountain away to distant isles? Because our feet are bound to the
dust. We enjoy the eagle's flight far more than the eagle himself
driving headlong before the storm; for imagination dallies with the
unknown po