To rid himself of this restraint, Shemus's
needle flew through the tartan like lightning; and as the artist kept
chanting some dreadful skirmish of Fin Macoul, he accomplished at least
three stitches to the death of every hero. The dress was, therefore, soon
ready, for the short coat fitted the wearer, and the rest of the apparel
required little adjustment.
Our hero having now fairly assumed the 'garb of old Gaul,' well
calculated as it was to give an appearance of strength to a figure which,
though tall and well-made, was rather elegant than robust, I hope my fair
readers will excuse him if he looked at himself in the mirror more than
once, and could not help acknowledging that the reflection seemed that of
a very handsome young fellow. In fact, there was no disguising it. His
light-brown hair--for he wore no periwig, notwithstanding the universal
fashion of the time--became the bonnet which surmounted it. His person
promised firmness and agility, to which the ample folds of the tartan
added an air of dignity. His blue eye seemed of that kind,
Which melted in love, and which kindled in war;
and an air of bashfulness, which was in reality the effect of want of
habitual intercourse with the world, gave interest to his features,
without injuring their grace or intelligence.
Pages:
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595