revenge, or
because he was wearying of Durrisdeer, and looked about for some
diversion, who but the devil shall decide?

From that hour, at least, began the siege of Mrs. Henry; a thing so
deftly carried on that I scarce know if she was aware of it herself, and
that her husband must look on in silence. The first parallel was opened
(as was made to appear) by accident. The talk fell, as it did often, on
the exiles in France; so it glided to the matter of their songs.

"There is one," says the Master, "if you are curious in these matters,
that has always seemed to me very moving. The poetry is harsh: and yet,
perhaps because of my situation, it has always found the way to my
heart. It is supposed to be sung, I should tell you, by an exile's
sweetheart; and represents perhaps not so much the truth of what she is
thinking, as the truth of what he hopes of her, poor soul! in these far
lands." And here the Master sighed. "I protest it is a pathetic sight
when a score of rough Irish, all common sentinels, get to this song; and
you may see, by their falling tears, how it strikes home to them. It
goes thus, father," says he, very adroitly taking my lord for his
listener, "and if I cannot get to the end of it, you must think it is a
common case with us exiles." And thereupon he struck up the same air as
I had heard the Colonel whistle; but now to words, rustic indeed, yet
most pathetically setting forth a poor girl's aspirations for an exiled
lover; of which one verse indeed (or something like it) still sticks by
me:--

"O, I will dye my petticoat red,
With my dear boy I'll beg my bread,
Though all my friends should wish me dead,
For Willie among the rushes, O!"

He sang it well, even as a song; but he did better yet as a performer. I
have heard famous actors, when there was not a dry eye in the Edinburgh
theatre; a great wonder to behold; but no more wonderful than how the
Master played upon that little ballad, and on those who heard him, like
an instrument, and seemed now upon the point of failing, and now to
conquer his distress, so that words and music seemed to pour out of his
own heart and his own past, and to be aimed directly at Mrs. Henry. And
his art went further yet; for all was so delicately touched, it seemed
impossible to suspect him of the least design; and so far from making a
parade of emotion, you would have sworn he was striving to be calm. When
it came to an end, we all sat silent for a t