402 MEMOIR OF JOHN WILSON. 



tense enioyment. We sat down to rest on an eminence at the head 

 of Loch Awe, when the midday sun glittered over every island and 

 promontory, streaking the green fields with lines of gold. Not 

 a sound escaped his lips ; but when, after a while, the softening 

 shades of afternoon lent a less intense color to the scene, he spoke a 

 few words, saying : " Long, long ago, I saw such a sight of beauty 

 here, that if I were to tell it no one would believe it ; indeed, I am 

 not sure whether I can describe what I saw ; it was truly divine ! 

 I have written something very poor and feeble in attempt to de- 

 scribe that incomparable bight, which I cannot now read ; but to 

 my dying day I shall not forget the vision." 



Did this vision suggest " Lays of Fairyland ?" — taking too, in 

 after years, another form than verse. It appeared in one of the 

 most beautiful morsels of prose composition he ever wrote, which 

 so impressed Lord Jeffrey's mind, he never was tired of read- 

 ing it, 



It is a description of a fairy's funeral, and rather than refer the 

 reader to the volume and page where it is to be found, I give the 

 extract, as in fitting association with Loch Awe and the unforgotten 

 vision or poet's dream near the brow of Ben Cruachan : — 



"There it was, on a little river island, that once, whether sleep- 

 ino- or wakino- we know not, we saw celebrated a fairy's funeral. 

 First we heard small pipes playing, as if no bigger than hollow 

 rushes that whisper to the night winds ; and more piteous than 

 aught that trills from earthly instrument was the scarce audible 

 dirge ! It seemed to float over the stream, every foam-bell emit- 

 ting a plaintive note, till the fairy anthem came floating over our 

 couch, and then alighting without footsteps among the heather. 

 The pattering of little feet was then heard, as if living creatures 

 were arranging themselves in order, and then there was nothing 

 but a more ordered hymn. The harmony was like the melting of 

 musical dewdrops, and sang, without words, of sorrow and death. 

 We opened our eyes, or rather sight came to them when closed, 

 and dream was vision. Hundreds of creatures, no taller than the 

 crest of the lapwing, and all hanging down their veiled heads, stood 

 in a circle on a green plat among the rocks ; and in the midst was 

 a bier, framed as it seemed of flowers unknown to the Highland 

 hills ; and on the bier a fairy lying with uncovered face, pale as a 

 lily, and motionless as the snow. The dirge grew fainter and 



