THE PORTENT
A STORY OF THE INNER VISION OF THE HIGHLANDERS,
COMMONLY CALLED THE SECOND SIGHT
DEDICATION.
MY DEAR SIR, KENSINGTON, May, 1864.
Allow me, with the honour due to my father’s friend, to inscribe this little volume with your name. The name of one friend is better than those of all the Muses.
And permit me to say a few words about the story.—It is a Romance. I am well aware that, with many readers, this epithet will be enough to ensure condemnation. But there ought to be a place for any story, which, although founded in the marvellous, is true to human nature and to itself. Truth to Humanity, and harmony within itself, are almost the sole unvarying essentials of a work of art. Even The Rime of the Ancient Mariner—than which what more marvellous?—is true in these respects. And Shakespere himself will allow any amount of the marvellous, provided this truth is observed. I hope my story is thus true; and therefore, while it claims some place, undeserving of being classed with what are commonly called sensational novels.
I am well aware that such tales are not of much account, at present; and greatly would I regret that they should ever become the fashion; of which, however, there is no danger. But, seeing so much of our life must be spent in dreaming, may there not be a still nook, shadowy, but not miasmatic, in some lowly region of literature, where, in the pauses of labour, a man may sit down, and dream such a day-dream as I now offer to your acceptance, and that of those who will judge the work, in part at least, by its purely literary claims? If I confined my pen to such results, you, at least, would have a right to blame me. But you, for one, will, I am sure, justify an author in dreaming sometimes.
In offering you a story, however, founded on The Second Sight, the belief in which was common to our ancestors, I owe you, at the same time, an apology. For the tone and colour of the story are so different from those naturally belonging to a Celtic tale, that you might well be inclined to refuse my request, simply on the ground that your pure Highland blood revolted from the degenerate embodiment given to the ancient belief. I can only say that my early education was not Celtic enough to enable me to do better in this respect. I beg that you will accept the offering with forgiveness, if you cannot with approbation.
Yours affectionately,
GEORGE MACDONALD.
To DUNCAN MCCOLL, Esq., R.N., Huntly.
CONTENTS
THE PORTENT
CHAPTER I. My Boyhood.
CHAPTER II. The Second Hearing.
CHAPTER III. My Old Nurses Story.
CHAPTER IV. Hilton Hall.
CHAPTER V. Lady Alice.
CHAPTER VI. My Quarters.
CHAPTER VII. The Library.
CHAPTER VIII. The Somnambulist.
CHAPTER IX. The First Waking.
CHAPTER X. Love and Power.
CHAPTER XI. A New Pupil.
CHAPTER XII. Confession.
CHAPTER XIII. Questioning.
CHAPTER XIV. Jealousy.
CHAPTER XV. The Chamber of Ghosts.
CHAPTER XVI. The Clanking Shoe.
CHAPTER XVII. The Physician.
CHAPTER XVIII. Old Friends.
CHAPTER XIX. Old Constancy.
CHAPTER XX. Margaret.
CHAPTER XXI. Hilton.
CHAPTER XXII. The Sleeper.
CHAPTER XXIII. My Old Room.
CHAPTER XXIV. Prison-Breaking.
CHAPTER XXV. New Entrenchments.
CHAPTER XXVI. Escape.
CHAPTER XXVII. Freedom.
THE CRUEL PAINTER
THE CASTLE
THE WOW O’RIVEN
THE BROKEN SWORDS
THE GRAY WOLF
UNCLE CORNELIUS HIS STORY
THE PORTENT
