grandson; and that these two, in the fulness of time, should wed;
and some portion of that student himself should survive yet a year

or two longer in the person of their child.
But our ancestral adventures are beyond even the arithmetic of

fancy; and it is the chief recommendation of long pedigrees, that
we can follow backward the careers of our HOMUNCULOS and be

reminded of our antenatal lives. Our conscious years are but a
moment in the history of the elements that build us. Are you a

bank-clerk, and do you live at Peckham? It was not always so. And
though to-day I am only a man of letters, either tradition errs or

I was present when there landed at St. Andrews a French barber-
surgeon, to tend the health and the beard of the great Cardinal

Beaton; I have shaken a spear in the Debateable Land and shouted
the slogan of the Elliots; I was present when a skipper, plying

from Dundee, smuggled Jacobites to France after the '15; I was in a
West India merchant's office, perhaps next door to Bailie Nicol

Jarvie's, and managed the business of a plantation in St. Kitt's; I
was with my engineer-grandfather (the son-in-law of the lamp and

oil man) when he sailed north about Scotland on the famous cruise
that gave us the PIRATE and the LORD OF THE ISLES; I was with him,

too, on the Bell Rock, in the fog, when the SMEATON had drifted
from her moorings, and the Aberdeen men, pick in hand, had seized

upon the only boats, and he must stoop and lap sea-water before his
tongue could utter audible words; and once more with him when the

Bell Rock beacon took a "thrawe," and his workmen fled into the
tower, then nearly finished, and he sat unmovedreading in his

Bible - or affecting to read - till one after another slunk back
with confusion of countenance to their engineer. Yes, parts of me

have seen life, and met adventures, and sometimes met them well.
And away in the still cloudier past, the threads that make me up

can be traced by fancy into the bosoms of thousands and millions of
ascendants: Picts who rallied round Macbeth and the old (and highly

preferable) system of descent by females, fleers from before the
legions of Agricola, marchers in Pannonian morasses, star-gazers on

Chaldaean plateaus; and, furthest of all, what face is this that
fancy can see peering through the disparted branches? What sleeper

in green tree-tops, what muncher of nuts, concludes my pedigree?
Probably arboreal in his habits. . . .

And I know not which is the more strange, that I should carry about
with me some fibres of my minister-grandfather; or that in him, as

he sat in his cool study, grave, reverend, contented gentleman,
there was an aboriginal frisking of the blood that was not his;

tree-top memories, like undeveloped negatives, lay dormant in his
mind; tree-top instincts awoke and were trod down; and Probably

Arboreal (scarce to be distinguished from a monkey) gambolled and
chattered in the brain of the old divine.

CHAPTER VIII. MEMOIRS OF AN ISLET
THOSE who try to be artists use, time after time, the matter of

their recollections, setting and resetting little coloured memories
of men and scenes, rigging up (it may be) some especial friend in

the attire of a buccaneer, and decreeing armies to manoeuvre, or
murder to be done, on the playground of their youth. But the

memories are a fairy gift which cannot be worn out in using. After
a dozen services in various tales, the little sunbright pictures of

the past still shine in the mind's eye with not a lineament
defaced, not a tint impaired. GLUCK UND UNGLUCK WIRD GESANG, if

Goethe pleases; yet only by endless avatars, the original re-
embodying after each. So that a writer, in time, begins to wonder

at the perdurable life of these impressions; begins, perhaps, to
fancy that he wrongs them when he weaves them in with fiction; and

looking back on them with ever-growing kindness, puts them at last,
substantive jewels, in a setting of their own.

One or two of these pleasant spectres I think I have laid. I used
one but the other day: a little eyot of dense, freshwater sand,

where I once waded deep in butterburrs, delighting to hear the song
of the river on both sides, and to tell myself that I was indeed

and at last upon an island. Two of my puppets lay there a summer's
day, hearkening to the shearers at work in riverside fields and to

the drums of the gray old garrison upon the neighbouring hill. And
this was, I think, done rightly: the place was rightly peopled -

and now belongs not to me but to my puppets - for a time at least.
In time, perhaps, the puppets will grow faint; the original memory

swim up instant as ever; and I shall once more lie in bed, and see
the little sandy isle in Allan Water as it is in nature, and the

child (that once was me) wading there in butterburrs; and wonder at
the instancy and virginfreshness of that memory; and be pricked

again, in season and out of season, by the desire to weave it into
art.

There is another isle in my collection, the memory of which
besieges me. I put a whole family there, in one of my tales; and

later on, threw upon its shores, and condemned to several days of
rain and shellfish on its tumbled boulders, the hero of another.

The ink is not yet faded; the sound of the sentences is still in my
mind's ear; and I am under a spell to write of that island again.

I
The little isle of Earraid lies close in to the south-west corner

of the Ross of Mull: the sound of Iona on one side, across which
you may see the isle and church of Columba; the open sea to the

other, where you shall be able to mark, on a clear, surfy day, the
breakers running white on many sunken rocks. I first saw it, or

first remembered seeing it, framed in the round bull's-eye of a
cabin port, the sea lying smooth along its shores like the waters

of a lake, the colourless clear light of the early morning making
plain its heathery and rocky hummocks. There stood upon it, in

these days, a single rude house of uncemented stones, approached by
a pier of wreckwood. It must have been very early, for it was then

summer, and in summer, in that latitude, day scarcely withdraws;
but even at that hour the house was making a sweet smoke of peats

which came to me over the bay, and the bare-legged daughters of the
cotter were wading by the pier. The same day we visited the shores

of the isle in the ship's boats; rowed deep into Fiddler's Hole,
sounding as we went; and having taken stock of all possible

accommodation, pitched on the northern inlet as the scene of
operations. For it was no accident that had brought the lighthouse

steamer to anchor in the Bay of Earraid. Fifteen miles away to
seaward, a certain black rock stood environed by the Atlantic

rollers, the outpost of the Torran reefs. Here was a tower to be
built, and a star lighted, for the conduct of seamen. But as the

rock was small, and hard of access, and far from land, the work
would be one of years; and my father was now looking for a shore

station, where the stones might be quarried and dressed, the men
live, and the tender, with some degree of safety, lie at anchor.

I saw Earraid next from the stern thwart of an Iona lugger, Sam
Bough and I sitting there cheek by jowl, with our feet upon our

baggage, in a beautiful, clear, northern summer eve. And behold!
there was now a pier of stone, there were rows of sheds, railways,

travelling-cranes, a street of cottages, an iron house for the
resident engineer, wooden bothies for the men, a stage where the

courses of the tower were put together experimentally, and behind
the settlement a great gash in the hillside where granite was

quarried. In the bay, the steamer lay at her moorings. All day
long there hung about the place the music of chinking tools; and

even in the dead of night, the watchman carried his lantern to and
fro in the dark settlement and could light the pipe of any midnight

muser. It was, above all, strange to see Earraid on the Sunday,
when the sound of the tools ceased and there fell a crystal quiet.

All about the green compound men would be sauntering in their
Sunday's best, walking with those lax joints of the reposing

toiler, thoughtfully smoking, talking small, as if in honour of the
stillness, or hearkening to the wailing of the gulls. And it was

strange to see our Sabbath services, held, as they were, in one of
the bothies, with Mr. Brebner reading at a table, and the