Dr. John Watson

“ The messenger of Muckle John snug under the crag took them in with one long, penetrating glance, but no expression of surprise or triumph or relief crossed his face. He regarded them, as he had regarded the stag, with cold, inscrutable eyes.
Through the hanging mists they came, and when they had drawn level with his place of concealment he uttered a forlorn cry—such as the whaup sends falling over an empty moor. Instantly the little man who walked in front stopped in his stride, and sent his eyes sweeping the skyline above his head. But no whaup was there. ”

“ In 1803 he became a member of the Massachusetts medical society, and in 1810 he proposed with Dr. John C. Watson the establishment of a hospital and an asylum for the insane. The asylum was soon founded in Somerville, and afterward the Massachusetts general hospital was begun in Boston, of which he was the first physician, till he resigned in 1835. In 1810 he was chosen professor of clinical medicine in the medical department of Harvard, and in 1812 professor of theory and practice, which post he held till 1836, and was afterward professor emeritus till his death. ”

“ That there was danger afoot he knew instinctively, but his great reliance upon Muckle John seemed to almost dissipate such perils. There was a mountain of strength in Muckle John.
The darkness was falling fast when of a sudden, like the spring of a leopard for swiftness, a man was upon his back and with the crook of his arm around his throat. Uttering one faint cry Rob tumbled backwards, and before he could struggle to his feet, his legs were gripped by another man and a third flung himself bodily upon his chest. ”

“ Gradually the little group about him thinned, until only a bare dozen remained, and it was in a breathing-space that Rob suddenly perceived Muckle John amongst them.
His head was bound in a piece of tartan, and bleeding profusely; but the smile was in his eyes, and his claymore rose and fell, and every time a man floundered upon the ground. Before him there lay a heap of Englishmen as high as his elbow.
Presently the smoke of powder cleared a little, and over the moor came a squadron of dragoons at a loose canter, killing all who stood in their way, both wounded and unarmed. ”

“ He motioned to the men to leave them, and sitting down began to talk in an affable pleasant manner as though he were discussing the weather or the price of stocks.
"Hark ye, Rob," he said, "I ken fine who ye're waiting for. It's Muckle John no less, and what I have in my mind I must say quickly. Now we want this little business carried through expeditiously and with discretion. We do not want any pranks, mind ye, and ye ken Muckle John as a man as full of tricks as a monkey. I want ye to sit here, Rob, until he comes, and promise me no to say a word to set him thinking. ”

“ Twice during the brief halt a man had crept out of the encircling darkness and scrutinized them narrowly. There was no sound beyond the wind sighing amongst the corries, but each time Muckle John had seen the heather quiver before something noiseless and stealthy that disappeared as softly as it had come. Once from far up the hill he heard a long whistle like a curlew on the wing.
At last he turned his head and let his eyes rest on Rob, and then again upon the grey horse with its drooping head. With a faint shrug of his shoulders he shook the boy. ”

“ The preparations for this expedition were under discussion when Muckle John and Rob came into the main street. For a while they walked along in silence, Muckle John grown suddenly gravely absorbed, and taking such great strides that Rob was hard put to it to keep up. The dawn was come, and with it the town of Inverness began to hum and buzz like a hive of bees. Men, quartered in every house along the narrow street, commenced to pour out upon the highway, some putting on their sword-belts as they came, others wiping sleep out of their tired eyes with their knuckled hands. ”

“ In the red firelight Rob could see their eyes gleam beneath their matted hair. With hypnotized gaze he watched a man unsheath his dirk and make a gesture significant enough, and with a gurgle in the throat requiring no explanation. So that was to be the end of it all—a secret murder by a band of lawless caterans ready to prey upon every stranger luckless enough to beg a night's lodging. He would never see Muckle John again. It made him wonder what he would have done to save his life. Muckle John always had a way. ”

“ THE WHISTLE OF THE BANSHEE
In the greyness of the dawn Muckle John called a halt.
"Rob," he said, "here is the day and only a mile covered since last night. Ye ken what that means? Within a few hours reinforcements will arrive from Fort Augustus, they will find the body of Strange—what must follow then?"
Rob shook his head. Escape seemed impossible.
"And yet," said Muckle John, "there must be a way—there's always a way, Rob, if you give your mind to it. There is no prison that cannot be broken, no wall that cannot be scaled—with luck and a cool head. ”

“ The clatter of Macaulay's flying form and his muffled cries drew the newcomers past the place where they lay, and then springing to his hands and feet Muckle John made off in the opposite direction into the heart of the swirling mist. There was a brief silence and then far away, came a shrill yell taken up again and again until every crag seemed alive with voices, and the faint glow of the rising sun made their escape seem impossible.
"They've found him," cried Muckle John, mounting the hillside at a great pace with Rob at his heels, "so it's save your breath and follow me." ”

“ Well, Rob, so it's fine to be a free man and a good ending to a brave cause."
"But you, Muckle John—what of you? Do you go to sea to-night?"
He shook his head.
"Not yet," he said, and held Rob by the hand for a moment saying nothing. Then taking his whistle from his pocket he broke into a jig, and in the yellow light of the lantern he started dancing under the empty gibbet tree.
It took doucer people than the Frasers to stand still when that kind of thing was afoot. Once again Rob and his aunt tripped it finely, and Castleleathers, that mountain of flesh and brawn, was not backward. ”

“ They were chattering together like monkeys as Muckle John and Rob approached, but on seeing them they fell silent and stared at them both with hostile, insolent eyes. There was not a man there who did not think of Culloden the moment he saw them—Muckle John with his limp and Rob with hunted Jacobite written all over him. There was little welcome for strangers in those days when a body of red-coats on the smallest pretext might burn an unoffending village to the ground. ”

“ With a groan Rob struggled up and peered over. A dreadful sight faced him. About twenty yards beneath, where one man was forced to climb upon the other's shoulders, the foothold had failed, and after a momentary, fluttering grasp at the thin grass that grew in patches here and there, a mournful cry went up, and the two bodies slid and tumbled and sped out of sight.
"They're killed!" cried Rob.
Muckle John rose stiffly to his feet.
"I said there were but two who knew the way," he replied, "and one is mysel'," and he stretched himself and began to walk up the slope of the hill. ”

“ Out in the night Muckle John stood deep in thought, then climbing softly over the wall he reached Rob and the great grey horse.
"I must leave you for a while, Rob," he whispered, "but I'll return, never fear, and keep watch for the bit tune—ye mind the way it goes—" and he whistled a bar. "Keep on the top of the hills, laddie, but mind the skyline, and never stir by day. It's advice easily given but a weary business to follow," and putting his foot in the stirrup he mounted and walked softly down the glen. ”

“ But Muckle John shook his head, and fell into a soliloquy in Lowland Scots.
"Oh, Rob, Rob," he said, "this is no pleasant hearing. It makes things difficult. I'm minded to leave ye, Rob, though I shrink frae doing so, for the country is fair hotching with spies and sic' like, and at this present moment, there's a wheen men with eyes fair glued to this spot, and all o' them just hungering for the dawn. It's a dangerous ploy ye're engaged upon, Rob, and one beside which Culloden was as snug as snaring rabbits," and he sighed again with his eyes up on the loch. ”

“ Now Rob was not the one to take blows from any one, least of all before a crowd of jeering strangers, and had Muckle John not given him a look there is no saying but that he might have acted rashly.
"There are times," answered Muckle John, "when a man is grateful for small mercies."
Instantly Mackenzie grew very red and took to breathing quickly, like all Highlanders in a passion.
"I seem to know your face," said he, "but I do not know the tartan you wear."
"It is a strange people you are," said Muckle John, "who do not know a bard when you see one." ”

“ You must search Lochaber, Captain Strange. I doubt you've made a sair muddle of this."
The moon was topping the hills, and a soft grey light stole suddenly down the crags, and fell upon the face of Strange.
"What of your men?" asked Muckle John at last.
Strange gave a bitter laugh.
"They will not stir," he said, "and if they do, Rob here can hold the pass."
"I am not an executioner," said Muckle John, "and I have only one leg."
"Then I must say that Muckle John was mair glib with his tongue than his sword. But I will not say Muckle John—I will say..." ”

“ What did come to that same treasure, Rob? Where was it buried or was it not buried at all?"
"I cannot say," replied Rob, "for I do not know."
Muckle John sighed and then shaking him by the hand addressed the far distance with a pensive and melancholy gaze.
"Whether a man is mair injudicious as a fool or a knave must ever be a matter of argument," he mused aloud, "but I ken fine which I would have ye be, Rob," and shaking his head he began to move away.
Suddenly, however, he paused and coming back more quickly led Rob down to the edge of the loch. ”

“ WATSON, JOSHUA (1771–1855) , philanthropist, was born on Tower Hill in the city of London on Ascension day, 9 May 1771. His forefathers were of the hardy and independent race of northern "statesmen;' but his father, John Watson, had come on foot from Cumberland to London in early youth to try his fortunes, and established himself successfully as a wine merchant on Tower Hill. ”

“ This story he seemed to regard as proving conclusively that he wrote the poem.
It is the hard fate of anthologists that they have to decide such controversies as this, and when William Cullen Bryant was compiling his Library of Poetry and Song, he assembled all the evidence and decided in favor of Mr. Watson. There has never been any serious reason to question his verdict.
John Whitaker Watson was a prolific writer, a hack of Grub Street, but “Beautiful Snow” is the only thing of his that still lives—if it can be said to live. ”

“ Rob went over to the window, and laid his head upon his arm. A deep despondency had suddenly fallen upon him. That Muckle John was only interested in the suppositious plan of the treasure seemed only too apparent. It was to obtain this that he schemed and planned. His own safety and life were trifles in comparison. Enemies within and enemies without, and all fashed about a plan that did not exist. ”

“ His cries sent a chill to Rob's very heart.
Then suddenly they charged the place, driving the foremost men onward from the rear, and even the quick thrust and stab of Muckle John could not resist that reckless onslaught. Within a few minutes the heap of the dead and fallen men was up to their elbows in that narrow place.
The voice of Strange urging on the fragments of his force now reached them. But only muttering curses and sullen voices followed, and with a laugh, Muckle John whistled a Highland rant—a mischievous, derisive tune, with a world of insolence in it. ”

“ But he appeared to have a dread of something in his mind.
"That is no boy's whistle," he replied sullenly, "but the pipe o' Muckle John."
Then Rob could have shouted for joy, for he knew in a trice who the great man in Fraser's tavern had been, who but the stranger on the moor who had lured the weasel from his lair. Nearer came the ripple of music, and then sounded a lusty banging at the street door and a man's voice shouting for entry.
"Whist!" said his aunt, and again came the knocking.
"Wha's there?" she cried.
"Open!" returned the voice—a deep bass voice like the noise of a bull. ”

“ Good-bye to ye, Rob, and here's some siller just in case you are hungry or want a night's lodging. But be careful of the wandering bodies Rannoch way, for they'd cut your throat for a nod and follow you to London for the clink of a bawbee."
"Good-bye," said Rob, "where do you go now, Muckle John?"
"I make for Arisaig," he replied, "I have a debt to pay."
"A debt?"
"Not so surprised, Rob, no man pays his just debts like Muckle John. Dirk for dirk—shot for shot—chase for chase—there is no honester soul than Muckle John." ”

“ Suddenly from the heather at their very feet a man leapt up—a squat, red-headed fellow with a naked dirk in his hand. Something in Macaulay's dim face seemed to have aroused his suspicions.
"Who are you?" he cried in Gaelic.
"Answer him," growled Muckle John in Macaulay's ear, but before he could say a word, the Highlander had scanned Rob's face, and with a shrill warning scream he leaped backward into the heather. It was his last mortal word. With a whistle of flying steel Muckle John whipped his claymore free, and lunging as it swung from the scabbard, drove the blade in to the hilt. ”