Rab had the dignity and simplicity of great size; and having fought his way all along the road to absolute supremacy, he was as mighty in his own line as Julius Caesar or the Duke of Wellington, and had the gravity[*] of all great fighters.

[* A Highland game-keeper, when asked why a certain terrier, of singular pluck, was so much more solemn than the other dogs, said, “Oh, Sir, life’s full o’ sairiousness to him—­he just never can get enuff o’ fechtin’.”]

You must have often observed the likeness of certain men to certain animals, and of certain dogs to men.  Now, I never looked at Rab without thinking of the great Baptist preacher, Andrew Fuller.[*] The same large, heavy, menacing, combative, sombre, honest countenance, the same deep inevitable eye, the same look,—­as of thunder asleep, but ready,—­neither a dog nor a man to be trifled with.

[* Fuller was, in early life, when a farmer lad at Soham, famous as a boxer; not quarrelsome, but not without “the stern delight” a man of strength and courage feels in their exercise.  Dr. Charles Stewart, of Dunearn, whose rare gifts and graces as a physician, a divine, a scholar, and a gentleman, live only in the memory of those few who knew and survive him, liked to tell how Mr. Fuller used to say, that when he was in the pulpit, and saw a buirdly man come along the passage, he would instinctively draw himself up, measure his imaginary antagonist, and forecast how he would deal with him, his hands meanwhile condensing into fists, and tending to “square.”  He must have been a hard hitter if he boxed as he preached—­what “The Fancy” would call “an ugly customer.”]

Next day, my master, the surgeon, examined Ailie.  There was no doubt it must kill her, and soon.  It could be removed—­it might never return—­it would give her speedy relief—­she should have it done.  She curtsied, looked at James, and said, “When?” “To-morrow,” said the kind surgeon—­a man of few words.  She and James and Rab and I retired.  I noticed that he and she spoke little, but seemed to anticipate everything in each other.  The following day, at noon, the students came in, hurrying up the great stair.  At the first landing-place, on a small well-known blackboard, was a bit of paper fastened by wafers and many remains of old wafers beside it.  On the paper were the words,—­“An operation to-day.  J.B. Clerk.”

Up ran the youths, eager to secure good places; in they crowded, full of interest and talk.  “What’s the case?” “Which side is it?”

Don’t think them heartless; they are neither better nor worse than you or I; they get over their professional horrors, and into their proper work—­and in them pity—­as an emotion, ending in itself or at best in tears and a long-drawn breath—­lessens, while pity as a motive is quickened, and gains power and purpose.  It is well for poor human nature that it is so.