She might have been very happy, with
Ronsard's latest poems, with Italian romances, with a boat on the loch,
and some Rizzio to sing to her on the still summer days. From her Castle
she would hear how the politicians were squabbling, lying, raising a man
to divinity and stoning him next day, cutting each other's heads off,
swearing and forswearing themselves, conspiring and caballing. _Suave
mari_, and the peace of Loch Leven and the island hermitage would have
been the sweeter for the din outside. A woman, a Queen, a Stuart, could
not attain, and perhaps ought not to have attained, this epicureanism.
Mary Stuart had her chance, and missed it; perhaps, after all, her
shrewish female gaoler made the passionless life impossible.
These, at Loch Leven, are natural reflections. The place has a charm of
its own, especially if you make up your mind not to be disappointed, not
to troll, and not to envy the more fortunate anglers who shout to you the
number of their victories across the wave. Even at Loch Leven we may be
contemplative, may be quiet, and go a-fishing. {2}
THE BLOODY DOCTOR. (A BAD DAY ON CLEARBURN)
Thou askest me, my brother, how first and where I met the Bloody Doctor?
The tale is weird, so weird that to a soul less proved than thine I
scarce dare speak of the adventure.
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