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 its 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.
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