To speak in the poetical language of my country, the seat of the Celtic muse is in the mist of the secret and solitary hill, and her voice in the murmur of the mountain stream.

He who wooes her must love the barren rock more than the fertile valley, and the solitude of the desert better than the festivity of the hall.' Few could have heard this lovely woman make this declaration, with a voice where harmony was exalted by pathos, without exclaiming that the muse whom she invoked could never find a more appropriate representative.

But Waverley, though the thought rushed on his mind, found no courage to utter it.

Indeed, the wild feeling of romantic delight with which he heard the first few notes she drew from her instrument, amounted almost to a sense of pain.

He would not for worlds have quitted his place by her side; yet he almost longed for solitude, that he might decipher and examine at leisure the complication of emotions which now agitated his bosom.
Flora had exchanged the measured and monotonous recitative of the bard for a lofty and uncommon Highland air, which had been a battle-song in former ages.