Mortimer. Three gold seals—Mrs Markham Vere. A watch and three emerald studs—the Honourable Dorothea Percy"
There was aloud shriek from the bar, and a bustle—the prisoner had fainted.
I looked at Strachan. He was absolutely as white as a corpse.
"My dear Tom," said I, "hadn't you better go out into the open air?"
"No!" was the firm reply; "I am Inverness here to do my duty, and I'll do it."
And in effect, the Spartan boy with the fox gnawing into his side, did not acquit himself more heroically than my friend. The case was a clear one, no doubt, but Tom made a noble speech, and was highly complimented by the Judge upon his ability. No sooner, however, had he finished it than he left the Court.
I saw him two hours afterwards.
"Tom," said I, "About these emerald studs—I think I could get them back from the Fiscal."
"Keep them to yourself. I'm off to India."
"Bah!—go down to the Highlands for a month."
Tom did so; purveyed himself a kilt; met an heiress at the Meeting, and married her. He is now the happy father of half-a-dozen children, and a good many of us would give a trifle for his practice. But to this day he is as mad as a March hare if an allusion is made in his presence to any kind of studs whatsoever.
CÆSAR
Wake, Rome! destruction's at thy door.
Rouse thee! for thou wilt sleep no more
Till thou shalt sleep in death:
The tramp of storm-shod Mars is near—
His chariot's thundering roll I hear,
His trumpet's startling breath.
Who comes?—not they, thy fear of old,
The blue-eyed Gauls, the Cimbrians bold,
Who like a hail-shower in the May
Came, and like hail they pass'd away;
But one with surer sword,
A child whom thou hast nursed, thy son,
Thy well-beloved, thy favoured one,
Thy Cæsar comes—thy lord!
The ghost of Marius walks to-night
By Anio's banks in shaggy plight,
And laughs with savage glee;
And Sylla from his loathsome death,
Scenting red Murder's reeking breath,
Doth rise to look on thee.
Signs blot the sky; the deep-vex'd earth
Breeds portents of a monstrous birth;
And augurs pale with fear have noted
The dark-vein'd liver strangely bloated,
Hinting some dire disaster.
To right the wrongs of human kind
Behold! the lordly Rome to bind,
A Roman comes—a master.
He comes whom, nor the Belgic band,
The bravest Nervii might withstand
With pleasure-spurning souls;
Nor they might give his star eclipse,
The sea-swept Celts with high-tower'd ships,
Where westmost ocean rolls.
