he spirit of God_."

"Pardon me," said the young man, "I am little acquainted with the prose
writings of Milton; and have, indeed, picked up most of my opinions of
Knox at second-hand. But I have read his _merry_ account of the murder
of Beaton, and found nothing to alter my preconceived notions of him,
from either the matter or manner of the narrative. Now that I think of
it, however, my opinion of Bacon would be no very adequate one, were it
formed solely from the extract of his history of Henry VII., given by
Kaimes in his late publication.--Will you not extend your walk?"

We quitted the ruins together, and went sauntering along the shore.
There was a rich sunset glow on the water, and the hills that rise on
the opposite side of the Frith stretched their undulating line of azure
under a gorgeous canopy of crimson and gold. My companion pointed to the
scene:--"These glorious clouds," he said, "are but wreaths of vapour;
and these lovely hills, accumulations of earth and stone. And it is thus
with all the past--with the past of our own little histories, that
borrows so much of its golden beauty from the medium through which we
survey it--with the past, too, of all history. There is poetry in the
remote--the bleak hill seems a darker firmament, and the chill wreath of
vapour a river of fire. And you, sir, seem to have contemplated the
history of our stern Reformers through this poetical medium, till you
forget that the poetry was not in them, but in that through which you
surveyed them."

"Ah, Mr. Ferguson," I replied, "you must permit me to make a
distinction. I acquiesce fully in the justice of your remark; the
analogy, too, is nice and striking, but I would fain carry it a little
further. Every eye can see the beauty of the remote; but there is a
beauty in the near--an interest, at least--which every eye cannot see.
Each of the thousand little plants that spring up at our feet, has an
interest and beauty to the botanist; the mineralogist would find
something to engage him in every little stone. And it is thus with the
poetry of life--all have a sense of it in the remote and the distant;
but it is only the men who stand high in the art--its men of profound
science--that can discover it in the near. The _mediocre_ poet shares
but the commoner gift, and so he seeks his themes in ages or countries
far removed from his own; while the man of nobler powers, knowing that
all nature is instinct with poetry, seeks and finds