After spending several years among the hills of Galloway, and being approved of by the Gorb (as he was called by every body, though his name was Macdougald) for a good swordsman, I tired of the country, being persuaded that the ground did not fatten the cattle properly; and from the moment I began to suspect that, I had no more satisfaction in the place, but utterly despised it. I perceived that their beef was never above an inch thick in the ribs, and what was worse, it was not properly mixed with white layers of fat; even the doubles in the broad bone of the shoulder were nothing but pure red lire. This will never do, thought I. How I despise the people that can put up with such a country as this! "Master," says I, one day, "I am quite tired of this country, and am going to leave it." "Wherefore are you going to leave it, Thomas? Have not I been better and kinder to you than to myself?" "For all that, master, I am resolved not to sojourn another week in it." "I warned you that they were a deceitful people before," said he; "but we must take them as they are. We cannot make mankind as we would wish to have them." "It is not for the men, nor for the women either, that I dislike the country so much," said I. "What is it then for?" said he. "It is," said I, "because I suspect that their grass is not of a good quality." I will never forget the look that the Gorb turned on me. He was walking somewhat before me, but when he heard my reason for disliking Galloway he wheeled about, and, taking one of his most striking upright positions, with his lean shoulders set up like two pins, he stared at me with his mouth wide open; and then put the following questions to me at long intervals. "Grass! eh! How do you mean?" "Look at it," said I; "What substance is in that wiry stuff, and on these hills of black heather!" The Gorb's jaws fell down with dismay. He visibly thought that I was deranged, but he answered me mildly to humour my malady. "True, the grass is not good; it never was, and never will be so. But I have not observed that you ever eat much of it; nor can I see how a man's happiness any way depends upon the quality of the grass of a country." "If that be all the sense that you have," thought I, "I will disdain for my part to exchange another word with you on the subject. Since you think that a man's happiness can depend on _any thing else_ but good grass, you shall be followed no longer by me." "Well," continued he, after waiting a while for an answer, "I see you are sulky about this whim, but I will humour it. I have nearly finished my terms among the mountains, and we shall descend upon the shores, where there is as good grass as any in Scotland, and I promise you full liberty to go into every field that you chuse, and take your bellyful of it. I have likewise many things to teach you, which will amuse you in the highest degree, and which belong to the sublime art of legerdemain." "What is that?" said I.