  The Queer Folk of Fife: Tales from the Kingdom BY DAVID PRYDE, M.A., LL.D. AUTHOR OF "PLEASANT MEMORIES OF A BUSY LIFE" GLASGOW MORISON BROTHERS 52 RENFIELD STREET 1897 pic CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION. Fifty years ago, the little burgh-town of Sandyriggs was a sleepy place. The inhabitants led, what they themselves called, "an easy-osy life." So little stir was there in the life of the small shopkeeper or tradesman, that he might be said to "vegetate." He grew and flourished where he had been born, and among his own schoolmates and his parents' cronies, who still called him by the fond familiar name of his boyhood, "Johnny," or "Jamie," or "Robby," as the case might be. His place of business was part of his home; and during the day he oscillated comfortably between the front shop and the back parlour. There was little competition, and very little anxiety about his trade. His customers were his friends, and he could rely implicitly on their support. It happened, therefore, that even in what he called his busiest time, he had many intervals of leisure during which he was at a loss what to do. Of a similar complexion was the life of the small farmers who abounded in the neighbourhood. The farmer, or "gudeman," as he was called, toiled, it is true, in the fields by the side of his own servants; but he had little of the endless anxiety of the husbandmen of the present time. In those halcyon days of Protection, he was the especial care of the Lords and Commons of Great Britain and Ireland. They were his guardian angels. What did it matter to him though the drought burned up his turnips, and the drenching rains blackened his barley? The prices rose at once to guard him against loss. Consequently, after his day's "darg," and when he had exchanged his muddy boots for slippers, and taken his "four hours" of tea and buttered scones, he could sit down, snuff-box in hand and free from care, and take his ease by the side of the blazing kitchen fire. Thus the peasantry, like the townsfolk, had their intervals of leisure, during which they were open for any entertainment that might come before them. Now, the important question came to be, How were these intervals of leisure to be filled up? There were no daily papers, few magazines, and few books to satisfy their craving for knowledge. Their minds were, therefore, obliged to feed upon the gossip of the country side; and so it came about that the gift of story-telling was cultivated, and that there were men and women who were recognised as the chroniclers of the district. These were the public entertainers, and were constantly called upon to use their gifts, especially for the delight of the young. Two of these chroniclers, a couple of the name of Steedman, I chanced to know. Better samples of "auld-farrant Scotch bodies" could not be imagined. In no other habitat than a quaint burgh like Sandyriggs could they have grown up. For many years they had "gathered gear" in a grocer's "shoppie," and had then retired on a competence. They now lived in a cottage, crooked, grey, and time-worn like themselves. A favourite niece waited upon them, for they preferred, after the patriarchal fashion, to be served by their own kith and kin, and not by the frem'd. Their religion, too, was of the olden type. They were Original Seceders, would not enter an Established Church, travelled miles to attend a Dissenting Chapel, believed every iota of the Bible and the Confession of Faith, kept the Sabbath strictly, abhorred novels as "parcels o' lees," and looked upon food that had not been consecrated by a long grace as absolute poison. Yet their religion, straight-laced though it might be called, did for them what more fashionable religions sometimes fail to do for their adherents. It made them far more cheerful, and far more appreciative of the blessings of life. The snow of winter was on their head, but the warmth of summer was in their heart. A brighter, cantier, and cosier pair could not be seen. They delighted in all their surroundings: their work, their religious exercises, their pipe of tobacco, and their nightly glass of toddy. They were particularly fond of recalling the scenes and incidents of the Past, and as I was an appreciative listener, I was always a welcome guest, and in fact was invited to drop in upon them as often as I could. As I write, the old couple are before me, one on each side of the hearth—he, in a brown suit with a cloth cap covering his grey hair, and with a most intelligent countenance—she, a tidy little body, with clean-cut features and with coloured ribbons in her cap—he, recalling with unction some bygone event—she, interpolating occasionally to add some little detail to complete the narrative—and both radiant with pleasure, as if the light of other days were warming their hearts and brightening their faces. "What a blessing," he would say, "is a good memory—one of the most precious gifts of God." After the fashion of old people, they often repeated the stories which they had told me on former occasions; but I did not object, as I was thus enabled to realise them more thoroughly. Some of the scenes and incidents which I acquired in this way, I now proceed to give as truthfully and clearly as I can. After a long dearth of news, an event happened to revive the interest of the gossips of Sandyriggs. That snug, substantial villa, Townhead Lodge, which stood within a garden, large and sloping to the south, had got at last a tenant, a Mr Callendar, whose family consisted of a wife, a son, and two daughters. And what was most interesting, there was a mystery about them all! Where they had come from, what was the source of their income, and why they kept themselves apart, no one knew. The father drove a gig of his own and was often from home. The mother was a recluse, and rarely ventured beyond her own walls. But the one who attracted the most notice was the elder daughter, who was frequently seen in the streets of the town attended by her brother. She was a mere girl of sixteen or seventeen, but she was exceedingly beautiful. Regarding her special charms, I never could learn much, except that she had a straight and lissome figure, dark hair, clear blue eyes, and a modest and winning expression, and above all that she had a sort of glamour about her which bewitched everyone who looked at her. The family altogether seemed so distinguished, and at the same so mysterious, that the gossips of the town were all agog to know more about them. But how was this knowledge to be got? The newcomers were evidently bent on keeping themselves aloof, and having as little to do as possible with the natives. There was difficulty even in approaching them. The one who overcame this difficulty was the late minister's sister, Miss MacGuffog, or, as she was familiarly called, "Miss Phemie." During the lifetime of her brother, who was a bachelor, she had taken a motherly interest in all the parishioners, and went out and in among them like a blood relation. After her brother's death, she kept up the practice. Uncharitable people sneered at her as a busybody; but they might have spared their sneers. They might have known that a busybody is not necessarily bad. It was not selfish curiosity, but kindly interest that was her motive. She was not a scandalmonger, but a sympathetic friend. Having a high idea of everything connected with her brother's parish, she was prepared to find good everywhere, and generally found it. As a matter of course, it had been her custom to call upon strangers in order to give them a hearty welcome. In this way she came to know all that was to be known about the Callendars; and as she held it to be selfish and unneighbourly to keep anything to herself, she freely communicated her information to the town gossips who met over afternoon tea. The information which she had gathered was as follows:—Mr Callendar was a partner in a firm of English merchants who did a large business all over the kingdom, and he had come to Scotland to establish a connection in Fife. Mrs Callendar was somewhat of an invalid, and passed the most of her time in reading. The elder daughter, Phoebe, was evidently the pride of her life. "Isn't she handsome and graceful," the mother had said as she fondly watched her going out of the room, "and would she not look at home in the highest mansion in the land?" It was evident that they expected her to make a great marriage. Meanwhile Miss Callendar's transcendent loveliness was seriously affecting the male population of the village. What was afterwards called "the Callendar fever" broke out among the bachelors, both old and young. And during their fits of delirium they behaved most absurdly. One began laboriously to train a moustache; another shaved off his beard to show the fine lines of his face; another allowed his hair to grow till it fell in ringlets on his shoulders; while gouty Major Mustard (half-pay) dyed the tuft on his chin, and, looking into his mirror, said, "Begad! I don't think that she can refuse an officer of the British Army." But the one who had the epidemic in the most aggravated form was Charles Raeburn, the town lawyer, and the laird of the small estate of Cowslip Brae. Charles was nothing if not poetical; and his ravings about Miss Callendar took the form of quotations from his favourite bards. He compared her to Spenser's Una, to Shakespeare's Portia drawing suitors from the four quarters of the world, to Virgil's Venus descending upon earth to fascinate mankind. One day (oh, ecstasy!) she came into his office to make some inquiries for the information of her father; but (oh, horror!) he lost his head, and gave the information in such an incoherent manner that she had some difficulty in understanding him. He wished to appear to her as a man of genius; but he had conducted himself like an idiot. All that he could do after this, was to wander round her house on moonlight nights, like a silly moth (as someone said) fluttering round a wax candle, or like a forlorn planet (as he himself said) circling round a central luminary. At length, his cousin, Dr Raeburn, thought to bring him to his senses by rating him soundly and telling him plainly that he was "carrying on like a lunatic." And, to the doctor's utter astonishment, Charles agreed with him. "Yes," said the poor fool, "you are quite right. I am a lunatic—a monomaniac. I'm haunted by one idea, one image. It appears in my dreams. It fills my waking hours. Position, friends, relations, are dross compared with her. I would rather have her than the largest estate, than a whole county, than a continent, than a bright new planet all to myself." But it was in the church on Sunday where the hopeless infatuation of the young men of the town was noticed. During the whole of the service, their eyes were fixed upon this young girl. Her pew was the pulpit, and she herself was both the preacher and the sermon. And one Sunday a strange phenomenon happened. The church, which was dingy and dark even at midsummer, appeared to be lighted up in some mysterious way. How came this to pass? On the previous Sunday, one of the many rivals, in order to attract the eyes of his goddess, had appeared in white waistcoat and white necktie; and all the others had lost no time in following suit. How did Miss Callendar conduct herself under all this idolatry? Most modestly. When she appeared on the streets with her little brother by her side, she saluted everybody with a good-natured smile. She smiled on Major Mustard, and set his well-worn heart palpitating. She also smiled on Peter Samuel the mercer's apprentice, when coming into the shop unexpectedly she asked to see some gloves; and when Peter shook all over while he was showing her the gloves, and answered confusedly, she smiled still more sweetly. "Bright as the sun her eyes all gazers strike, One Sunday there appeared in the church a stranger, like a being from another sphere. That he was an aristocrat was evident. He had an elegant figure, clean-cut features, and easy manners; and, as Peter Samuel remarked, "was dressed up to the nines, and looked as if he had come out of a bandbox." In fact, he was a regular London-made exquisite, "a dandy," "a swell." Nor was there any mistake about the object of his visit. All during the service his eyes were fixed on Phoebe Callendar, the village beauty. That evening, too, in the Orchard Lane he was seen walking with her. Her little brother, indeed, was there. But the exquisite, with that ease which high society gives, and which local beaux can never acquire, was looking into her face and talking, while she blushed and held down her head. In a few days she disappeared. Had she eloped? Sandyriggs was in a ferment. At last Miss Phemie MacGuffog solved the mystery. Miss Callendar's young lover was the heir to a dukedom. Her parents, alarmed at the intimacy, and thoroughly disapproving of it, had sent her to a boarding-school in England; and she was never seen again in Sandyriggs. In a few months the family gave up their house and departed southwards. The one who was most affected by Miss Callendar's departure was Charles Raeburn. He grew melancholy, lost his appetite and his sleep, and wandered about like a ghost. He was like the traveller, when the moon, which has lightened and beautified his path over hill and dale, suddenly goes down and leaves him to stumble on in the dark. In a short time he vanished; and when months elapsed without bringing any intelligence regarding him, his neighbours gave him up for lost. A few years passed, and the inhabitants had almost forgotten the Callendars, when they were startled by a short paragraph in the county newspaper, to the effect that Miss Phoebe Callendar was about to bring an action for breach of promise of marriage against the Duke of——. Here was an interesting subject to talk about! A breach of promise against a duke by a former inhabitant of Sandyriggs, a girl whom they all knew! The whole district was in a flutter of excitement. When the trial came on in London, the editor of the County Chronicle employed a special correspondent to give a report of it; and when the newspaper containing the account of the trial arrived, it was devoured with breathless interest, and handed about from house to house. After describing the appearance of the Court, and naming the famous barristers and attorneys employed on both sides, the reporter went on to say that the plaintiff, seated in a prominent place beside her legal advisers, was "the cynosure of every eye," and her exquisite beauty, and modest but melancholy expression, captivated at once not only the ordinary onlookers, but even the gentlemen of the jury themselves. "The Attorney-General stated her case with all that romantic and touching eloquence for which he is famous. 'The plaintiff,' he said, 'was a young lady of the greatest personal attractions. When first she drew the attention of the defendant, she was living in retirement at the small town of Sandyriggs in Fife. She was a mere girl, attending to her lessons under the watchful care of her mother, and thinking of nothing but her daily duties and her innocent amusements. She was, indeed, the life of her parents' hearts, the idol of her young companions, and the delight and pride of the whole village. But this golden age was not to last long; into this innocent paradise the serpent was soon to find his way. The defendant, then the Honourable Algernon Colenutt, an Oxford student, happened to be spending his vacation at a mansion in the neighbourhood. He heard of this charming young creature—this beauty of Sandyriggs, as she was called,—and he resolved to see her. It was no mere idle curiosity. He was one of those golden youths who think that everything is made for their amusement, that women especially are but toys that may be played with for a time, and then cast aside for ever.' "'On a particular Sunday this gay Lothario attended the Sandyriggs church. His presence there was noticed by most of the congregation; and it was particularly remarked that his eyes were upon Miss Callendar during the whole service, and that, in fact, he was completely spellbound. Then in the evening he was seen talking to her in a lane near her own house. He had waylaid her, and it was then, it seems, that he gained her affections. By such a lover—young, handsome, aristocratic, elegant in dress and manners, polished in speech and adroit in flattery—was it surprising that the simple country maiden was won? Ere they parted she plighted her troth to him; and, proud of her conquest, the poor girl lost no time in making her mother her confidante.' "'Now, Gentlemen of the Jury, you will very likely be told by my learned brother, the counsel for the defence, that Miss Callendar's parents were artful schemers, using every device to entrap an unwary nobleman. But what did they do as soon as they heard of this courtship? They immediately sent their daughter away to a boarding-school in England, and afterwards to France, to be out of the way of this aristocratic wooer. They were too sensible not to see that such a connection would be unequal, and likely to prove dangerous to the happiness of both parties. But their precautions were unavailing. The defendant was not to be denied. He contrived to find out where his beloved was, and to continue the correspondence; and after he had succeeded to the dukedom, and after the Callendars had settled down in England, at Woodhurst, about sixty miles from his ducal castle, his attentions became more assiduous. He visited her at her father's house, and sent many letters,—some of which I now produce,—and all of which are full of the warmest protestations and the most endearing terms of affection. At length the wedding was fixed for July, and Miss Callendar and her mother set themselves to make all the necessary preparations. Up to this time, there had not been the slightest hitch, the slightest misunderstanding, and the happiness of the young couple seemed to be assured. But ere the appointed day arrived, what was the consternation of the Callendars to read in the newspaper the announcement that the Duke of —— had been married to Miss Fortescue Devlin. At first they could not believe the statement; but after inquiry they found that it was only too true. And, Gentlemen of the Jury, I can only leave you to imagine what a disastrous effect this sudden perfidy has had on my client. Her loving heart has been broken, and her fair young life has been for ever blighted.' "'I believe that my learned brother is to take up the bold and desperate position that these facts are not true, and that the written correspondence is a forgery. What! a young, timid, and unsophisticated girl sitting down deliberately to forge, not one letter, but a whole bundle of letters, and doing it so accurately that she has deceived those who are best acquainted with the defendant's handwriting! Why, Gentlemen, the idea is preposterous, it is inconceivable, it is wholly and absolutely ridiculous!' (Derisive laughter, which was immediately suppressed.) "The Attorney-General then proceeded to call witnesses in order to prove his statements. The sister of the plaintiff told that she had seen the defendant several times at her father's house, and in the company of her sister, and mentioned one occasion particularly, the 20th of May, which she had good cause to remember, because it was the fair day at the neighbouring village of Woodhurst, and the defendant presented her with a sovereign as a fairing. The mother gave evidence as to the receiving of the defendant's letters, and about her daughter's letters in reply being posted. An old clergyman, who had been the defendant's tutor, swore that the handwriting of the letters was that of his former pupil. These witnesses were severely cross-examined, but their evidence on the whole remained unshaken. "Then Mr Ridley, the counsel for the Duke, arose. He was famous as a defender of abandoned criminals, and generally as a cunning handler of the most desperate cases. It was no uncommon thing for him to bully witnesses, and browbeat even the judge himself. Everybody, therefore, expected strong statements from him, but few were prepared for the merciless terms which he now used. Standing up, and looking round with a confident, triumphant air, he began his speech. 'The Attorney-General,' he said, 'in referring to the ground which was to be taken up for the defence, had scouted the idea of such a young and delicate creature perpetrating forgery. But my learned friend ought to know that in the history of crime there have been young girls as delicate and as refined as the plaintiff, who have been guilty of this heinous offence. I have only to refer to the cases of Elizabeth Canning and Mary Glen. In spite, therefore, of what the learned Attorney-General has said, I now assert, and am prepared to prove, that the plaintiff, guileless and modest as she looks, has perpetrated one of the most daring and elaborate forgeries in the whole of our criminal history.' "At this assertion, uttered in a slow, distinct, and severe tone, Miss Callendar burst into tears, and was so completely overcome that she had to leave the Court. Cries of 'Shame, shame,' were hurled at the head of the counsel. But he, nothing abashed, looked round defiantly, and repeated the phrase with greater incisiveness; and went on in the same remorseless way to maintain that his client had scarcely ever seen Miss Callendar, had scarcely ever spoken to her, had scarcely ever written to her, and had certainly never made any promise of marriage. The audience glanced occasionally at the Attorney-General to see what effect this flat denial of all his assertions would have upon him; but he remained quite calm, just as if nothing unusual had been said. "Mr Ridley then proceeded to examine his witnesses in the same peremptory style; and ever as he drew from them some important bit of evidence, he gave a triumphant look at the jury, as much as to say, 'What do you think of that? Wasn't what I told you true?' One was made to confess that the defendant had never seen Miss Callendar since his accession to the title; another, that the letters which had been read swarmed with ridiculous errors as to matter of fact; and another, that the handwriting was totally unlike that of the defendant. These witnesses were cross-examined, but took care not to contradict themselves. At all this, Miss Callendar's partisans, of whom there were many amongst the audience, were puzzled and even confounded; but an audible whisper, 'they are all relatives, and have got up the story,' restored their confidence. It was evident, too, that the Attorney-General felt that something was wrong; because he turned round to talk with the agent. But the audience was again perplexed by what followed. "An innkeeper from Welldon, fifty miles from Woodhurst, was put into the box. In answer to examination, he said, 'that he knew the Duke of ——; that on the 20th of May, the day of Woodhurst Fair, and the day when he was said to have been at the house of the plaintiff, the Duke arrived in a post-chaise on his way to Market Bruton; that there could be no mistake about this, for here were the receipts for the post horses.' And these receipts were handed to the jury to examine. "But the most startling bit of evidence was yet to come. A young lady entered the witness-box, kissed the Book, and was subjected to the following questioning:—(Q.) You are Miss Ironside? (A.) Yes. (Q.) You live at Woodhurst? (A.) I do. (Q.) You know the plaintiff? (A.) I do. (Q.) You remember a ball taking place at Lyndcaster? (A.) I do. (Q.) What was the date? (A.) Last year, in the month of April. (Q.) Who went with you to the ball? (A.) Miss Phoebe Callendar. (Q.) How was she dressed? (A.) In white, with one red rose in her hair. (Q.) Was there any person that she wished particularly to see at the ball? (A.) The Duke of ——. (Q.) How did you know that? (A.) She told me. (Q.) Look at that letter. Do you know the handwriting? (A.) Yes. (Q.) Whose is it? (A.) Miss Callendar's. (Q.) You are sure? (A.) Quite sure. Then Mr Ridley, turning to the jury, said he would read the letter, which was as follows:—
"This letter fell upon the audience like a bombshell, and created the greatest excitement and consternation. But it was evident from the whispers of 'got up,' and 'bribed by the relations,' that the audience had not even yet given up Miss Callendar. And they were very much relieved when they saw the Attorney-General rise. He was evidently going to put a stop to this wholesale slander and forgery. Alas, however, for their hopes! Instead of hearing him expose the evidence that was being given, they heard him make an admission that has very seldom been made in a court of law. In a perfectly calm voice and manner he said that this letter had come upon them as a surprise, that they had neither the time nor the means of throwing any light upon it, and that, therefore, with the concurrence of his learned friends, the attorneys for the plaintiff, he now begged leave to withdraw from the contest. Under these circumstances the plaintiff would be non-suited. Accordingly the case was dismissed; the letter was impounded in order that Miss Callendar might be indicted for conspiracy; and the audience dispersed amid murmurs of astonishment. But it was noted that while the elder members of the crowd muttered their detestation of Miss Callendar's shameless forgery, the young men were louder than ever in their admiration." "What a fascinating girl she must be," said one, "to be able to take in the sharpest attorneys and the most learned counsel at the bar! what a clever little witch!" "By Jove," cried another, in a strong Irish accent, "she's too good for a duke's wife. She ought to be a queen. She is a queen, the queen of love and beauty, and should be classed with Helen of Troy, Cleopatra, and Mary Queen of Scots; and, bedad, it's meself that should loike to be Paris or Antony or Bothwell." Next morning a note appeared in one of the London newspapers stating that Miss Callendar had been apprehended on a charge of forgery; but it was not true. She had vanished, and no one knew where she was. Imagine the excitement now in Sandyriggs after this report had been read! The town became a fermenting vat of scandal. Whispers swarmed as fast as gnats in August, and, like gnats, they flew abroad and buzzed in the ears of the public. The case was discussed at every shop-counter, at every tea-table, at every street corner, in every public-house, on every turnip field. People who had never spoken to each other before, exclaimed as they passed each other, "Isn't this a dreadful affair?" And it was astonishing to find that everyone had foreseen, nay, had hinted such a catastrophe. So many people pose as true prophets after the fact! Even Miss Phemie MacGuffog was forced to forego her usual charitable views, and to confess that the poor unfortunate girl had been ruined by her training. Every circumstance, she said, was against her. Her father was a worldly man, engrossed with money-making, and seldom at home. Her mother, a silly woman, was abandoned to romance reading, and neglected her everyday duties, and lived in a world of unreality. The poor girl herself got no solid education. She had no need, her mother told her, to be clever or accomplished. She was lovely, which was far better, and would undoubtedly make a grand match and be a titled lady. To look handsome, and graceful, and fascinating, therefore, was all that she required to do. And the despatching of her to a boarding-school, and then to the Continent, in order to escape her aristocratic admirer, was a mere device. She was sent to a boarding establishment near Oxford because he was a student there, and she afterwards went to France to continue her education because he had gone there. And Miss Phemie was told that the education which she received at both these places was of the flimsiest kind, being limited to the singing of one or two songs, the hammering out on the piano of one or two classical pieces, and the copying of one or two drawings. The most of the pupils' time and attention was devoted to talking about fine dresses, equipages, balls, and aristocratic admirers. "In fact," concluded Miss Phemie, "they were evidently taught to look upon the world, not as a sphere of duty and labour, but as a big cookie shine." The worthy people of Sandyriggs were still discussing this strange catastrophe, when a new surprise claimed their notice. Intelligence came regarding the long-lost Charles Raeburn. His cousin, the doctor, received a letter from him, bearing the postmark of a town in Spain, and empowering him to sell Cowslip Brae and transmit the price. Before the gossips had ceased to puzzle their brains over this extraordinary sacrifice, another letter arrived and explained the whole mystery. In the frankest and most straight-forward language, Charles Raeburn told his cousin the following romantic tale:— "I felt that I could not remain in Sandyriggs after the object of my adoration had gone. So I followed her to Oxford and to France, and back again to England, and was present at the trial. From my professional experience I very soon saw how judgment was likely to go, and what a terrible fate was hanging over the head of the unfortunate girl. So, when stung by Ridley's merciless language, she left the Court abruptly, I followed her, and in presence of her mother told her that the verdict was almost certain to be against her, and that, if it were so, she would be apprehended for forgery. While she stood aghast and dumb at this intelligence, I offered my assistance, and they accepted it. I went with them at once to their hotel, paid their bill, packed their luggage, and had everything ready for flight. As soon as the result which I had anticipated was announced, we were off, and by next morning were on the Continent. I took rooms for them in this town, and a lodging for myself not far off, and here we remained till we could see what ought to be done. "One morning, Miss Callendar sent to say that she wanted to see me. When I went to her, she told me with tears in her lovely eyes that her mother must go back to her husband in England, but that she herself must remain abroad; and what could she do to earn her bread? Would I, the only friend she now had, advise her? What could I do but offer, as her husband, to protect and cherish her for the rest of her life. She started back in horror, declared that she was a criminal, a felon, a forger who ought to be in prison, and utterly unworthy to be the wife of an honest man, and that she would not bring disgrace on one whom she esteemed so much, whom—and here she gave way and cried most bitterly. Then there flashed through my brain and heart Spenser's exquisite lines:— "'Nought is there under heav'n's wide hollownesse "These were the very feelings that were thrilling through me. I lost control of myself. Dropping down on my knees and seizing her hand, I poured out my whole soul. What I said I cannot recall; but at last she reluctantly consented to marry me, on condition that I would do my very best to teach her to be a good woman and a dutiful wife. Poor broken-hearted darling, she was more sinned against than sinning. The persons really to blame were her mercenary father and her novel-reading mother, who neglected her education, and that hollow-hearted aristocrat who trifled with her innocence. And most touching it is to see how humble and yet how loving she is, and how her face is still 'combating with tears and smiles.' If she is not to be forgiven, there can be no such thing as forgiveness on earth. I am sure that I have done what is right. Away from her, I would have been in outer darkness. Beside her, I am in Paradise." The narrative which I am about to give was a prime favourite at the winter firesides of the parish. Its chief incident is so extraordinary, that it has often been scouted as an improbability. But it is literally true, as may be ascertained by those who will take the trouble to investigate the chronicles of the period. In the early years of the present century, the principal baker in Sandyriggs was Alister Gow. He had one son, Donald, and five daughters. The four elder girls, Flora, Ellen, Marjory, and Nora, were good-looking, with bright complexions and red cheeks; the youngest, Mysie, was plain, with irregular features and dingy colour. The four soon found husbands, thriving tradesmen in the place, who gave them what was called "a good setting down"; but no one came to court Mysie, and she remained at home to attend to the comfort of her parents, and specially to take charge of the shop. "And when are you gaun aff, Mysie," said old Wull Spears, the most impudent man in the parish, "when are you gaun to be knocked doon to the highest bidder?" "Oh!" said Mysie, in the bright manner peculiar to her, "I'm no in the market; there's nae demand for gudes like me." "I wadna wonder," continued Wull, "that ye're gaun to be an auld maid." "And what for no?" replied Mysie. "Maids, like Scotch whisky, improve by growin' auld." The years rolled by and brought changes. While Mysie's married sisters, harassed by the ceaseless worries of housekeeping and child-rearing, became more and more careworn, Mysie herself, able and willing for all her duties, grew cantier and cantier every day. While they began to lose their good looks, she began to lose her plainness. The truth is, that she was, though probably she did not know it, a practical philosopher; and in a business-like manner she weighed the advantages and disadvantages of her lot. "What have I kept," she said to herself, "by remaining single? Good health, good spirits, home comforts, congenial employment, pleasant friends and neighbours. And what have I lost? A husband! And what is a husband? A pig in a poke, a lottery ticket that may take a prize but is far more likely to get a blank. If I'm not happy now, I never deserve to be." So she resolved to keep a contented mind, to dwell on the blessings she had, and not on those which she had not, to make the most of her life, and to find something good in everything. She was cheerful under all circumstances, and had a smile and a kind word for all her fellow-creatures. As the old people expressed it, "she was everybody's body." However dull and cheerless the weather might be in the streets of the town, there was always sunshine in the baker's shop at the corner of Water Lane. And this genial, kindly disposition soon began to tell upon her own appearance. It actually cleared her complexion, brightened her eyes, and made her look (as an old woman remarked) "halesome, wicelike, and bonny." She became a walking proof of the truth of the proverb that "a kindly disposition is the best cosmetic." And thus it happened, that not only old people and children were attracted by her, but even wooers; and among them came (wonderful to relate) the dandy draper, the woman-killer, the gay Lothario of the town. This was Bob Dallas. The worship of his mother and sisters had convinced him that he was an Adonis; and the bright smiles of the village maidens had confirmed this belief. "A' the lasses," his sisters would remark to a friend, "are in love wi' oor Bob;" and his mother, in her strong idiomatic Scotch, would add—"Toots, ye ken, they'll no lie aff 'im." Accordingly, he wore on his countenance a constant smirk of satisfaction, and he entered a company as if to the tune, "See the Conquering Hero comes." He sought female society to captivate, not to sue, to receive admiration, not to give it. A pretty girl was a plaything to be taken up for a short time, and then changed for something else. Some people called this conduct cruelty; but he thought it kindness. A smile from him, he believed, was a favour which every woman would prize. It was this notorious flirt that now fixed his eye upon Mysie. She was different from the pink-and-white damsels with whom he had been accustomed to trifle; but it was this very difference that fascinated him. He began to "show her attention" at every opportunity, to walk home with her from church, and to go frequently to her shop in the evening. At first, Mysie was surprised and not a little amused. She joked with him, telling him that if he was often seen with her his many admirers would hate her, and, what would be more dreadful, his reputation as a judge of female beauty would be gone. And when, one evening after the shop was closed, he actually went the length of asking her to be his wife, she laughed outright in his face, and told him that he didn't know his own mind, that he would tire of her plain features in a fortnight, and that she could never be any more to him than a sincere well-wisher. But when, like a spoilt child unaccustomed to be balked, he sulked and mooned about the streets with a pale and miserable face, and at the end of a few weeks sent her a frenzied letter, vowing that if he could not win her he would drown himself in the loch, she relented. She was too charitable to believe that he was not in dead earnest, and what could she do but ask him to call upon her? And when, dropping on his knees, he shed tears and vowed that she was the only one he had ever loved, the only one he would ever love, she yielded and promised to be his wife. Mysie was now happier than ever. Though she had been quite content to remain single, she was delighted to have gained the exclusive devotion of a man. Though well able by herself to fight the battle of life, she felt that her happiness would be made more sure by having constantly by her side one whom she could call her own, her other self. There was also a special Éclat in having won the prize which so many had in vain competed for. "My certie," said Mrs Patullo, the minister's wife, when she looked in at the shop, along with her husband and her son Tom, to congratulate her, "my certie! it's something to have killed the Lady-killer." "Yes! Mysie," said the minister, "you have caught and tamed the roving zebra of the desert, who has hitherto been thought untamable." "Ay," added Master Tom, who had contracted the abominable habit of punning, "and you are now going to lead him to the halter." Mysie set about preparing for her marriage in a business-like way. Very little time was spent in billing and cooing. An early day was fixed for the ceremony. A small house was taken, and suitable furniture ordered. And that she might have her trousseau ready in time, she called in her cousin, Bessie Gayley, to assist her. Bessie was a good-looking, bright damsel, ready with her tongue, with her wits, and with her hands,—up to anything, equal to any emergency. She made herself generally useful and agreeable, helped in the house and in the shop, and when Mysie was specially occupied of an evening, entertained Bob with her chit-chat. It was just two days before the date fixed for the wedding. Mysie had closed the shop, and was sitting in the back parlour. She was alone, for her father and mother were in the kitchen, and Bessie and Bob had gone out on some errand of their own. She felt rather depressed,—a state which was very unusual with her, and which she could not account for. In a short time she heard Bob and Bessie come in. Then there occurred a few awful moments which she never forgot for the rest of her life, and which made her heart throb. First, there was an earnest whispering in the passage, then a strange silence, and at last the door opened. She rose instinctively to her feet, for she saw by their faces that some calamity had happened. "What is it?" she exclaimed. "Why don't you tell me?" Bessie looked at Bob as if urging him to speak, and Bob, blushing and stammering, said, "I'm very sorry, Mysie; but I can't help it. I like you very much, but I don't feel towards you as a husband should do. The fact is that Bessie and I have discovered that we were made for each other." Mysie stared at them for a moment, thinking that it might possibly be a joke; but their guilty looks showed that it was a stern reality. Clutching the back of her chair, and mustering all her natural strength of character, she said, in a voice preternaturally calm: "So, Mr Dallas, you have found out that you can't give me the affection of a husband! Well, I'll manage to do without it; and at any rate I'm glad that you have told me in time. As for you, you serpent in the form of a woman, I'll leave you to the punishment of your own conscience. And if you have not got such an article, as seems very likely, it will be punishment enough to be tethered for life to that fickle fool that stands beside you." So saying, she passed out of the room, leaving the pair standing with guilt-stricken countenances. It is well known that the lower animals often attack and even torment one of their own kind when he is sick or wounded. A good deal of this bestial habit still lingers among men. When distress falls upon us, our friends often aggravate that distress. They do not know, perhaps, that they are doing it, but still they do it. Had Mysie been left to herself, her own good sense and courage would have buoyed her up, and enabled her to trample her sorrow under foot. But when she went abroad, people would not allow her to forget that sorrow. Those who were her friends condoled with her. Those who were not her friends stared at her. She felt that the town was in a buzz about her affairs. And at home the tormenting process was even worse. Her mother bemoaned the slight that had fallen on the family. Her brother breathed forth threatenings against the features and limbs of the culprit. Her father talked incessantly about raising an action for breach of promise. In vain she told her mother and brother that they would best keep up the family honour, not by bewailings and threatenings, but by looking as if they thought the rupture of the engagement a blessed release. In vain she told her father that legal proceedings were not to be thought of, and that while they might be a punishment to Dallas, they would be a far greater punishment to herself. Morning, noon, and night, the worrying went on. At length her highly-strung nervous system, which had buoyed her up above all her other troubles, fairly broke down. She lost the power of sleeping. She lost her appetite. A strange nausea took possession of her, and everything grew distasteful, and life itself became an intolerable burden. From having been the embodiment of happy good-nature, she changed into a woe-begone hypochondriac. And people unknowingly aggravated her disease by expressing astonishment at her altered appearance, by telling her that she looked very ill, and by bursting forth afresh into recriminations against the man that had jilted her. Then there came a morning when her room was found empty, and a note upon the dressing-table told her parents that she could bear the atmosphere of Sandyriggs no longer, and that she was off to a place where no one knew her, and where she would have perfect peace. Blank consternation fell upon the family. When they recovered a little, the brother swore that he would go and smash Dallas, the author of all their woe; and the mother's impulse was to run abroad and get sympathy and advice from her neighbours. But the father, with far more tact and knowledge of the world, insisted that the first thing to be done at all hazards, was to prevent any scandal. They must not of their own accord say anything about the matter, and if any question should be asked, they must answer that she had gone to a friend's for a complete rest. Meanwhile they must try to find her. This was no easy task. The very fact that they could not talk about it prevented them from getting any assistance from the outside world. For two or three days the brother, Donald, under pretence of paying ceremonious calls, made the round of all their intimate friends and relatives in the neighbouring farm towns and villages; but every night he returned worn-out, and with a despairing shake of the head intimated that he had got no trace of the lost one. Then there flashed into the father's mind the thought that she would likely be in Edinburgh; and he wondered that it had never occurred to him before. Why, a large town was the very place where a person, sick of being stared at and worried by inquisitive neighbours, would find rest; and they had a cousin there in whose house she would very likely get a lodging. Accordingly, the father and son set out at once, crossed the Firth in the ferry-boat from Pettycur to Leith, and then walked up Leith Walk to Edinburgh. They went to the cousin's address in Broughton Street, but found that she had moved at the last term, and none of the neighbours could tell where she had gone. Wearied out and disheartened, they put up at a hotel at Greenside, where they both passed an anxious and a restless night. Next morning, for want of a better plan, they resolved to look for Mysie in the thoroughfares, the father taking the New Town and the brother taking the Old Town. The unhappy old man spent most of the day in wandering up and down the streets, looking in vain amid the throng of strange and unsympathetic faces for those familiar kindly eyes that had been the light of his home. Jaded and perplexed, he had returned to his hotel in the early afternoon, when the landlord, whom he had taken into his confidence the night before, laid the advertisement sheet of a newspaper before him, and pointed to a paragraph headed "Found Drowned." He glanced rapidly over it, and to his horror saw that it was a description of his lost daughter. There could be no mistake. The age, the complexion, the features, the hair, all corresponded. Like one stunned by a heavy blow on the head, the old man sat still for a moment. Then, driven by a feeling made up of hope and fear, he hurried to the police office in the High Street, all unconscious of the traffic that rumbled and buzzed around him. In a short time he found himself in the death-chamber, in presence of a prostrate and shrouded form, lying so terribly still and quiet; and in another second the facecloth was removed, and his worst fears were realised. Yes! in the stiff waxen mask he recognised that countenance which had so lately been the joy of everyone who looked upon it. He stood gazing at it like a man in a trance, till his pent-up feelings found vent in tears. Then it was that there occurred a most extraordinary circumstance—what would be deemed incredible, were it not vouched for by the chroniclers of the time. The door opened, and, in company with his son, there appeared the very woman whose fate he was bewailing and whose dead form he was gazing upon. She came forward, and her face took on a look of intense surprise at what she saw. "Father!" she exclaimed, "what's wrang wi' ye? And what's this? mercy! what's this? can it be me? No! and yet it's awfu' like, but, no! no! Father, that's no' me! this is me." And she took both his hands and kissed him, and in this way convinced him that she was his own daughter. And who was this dead woman that was Mysie's double? The question was never answered. She went to a pauper's grave unclaimed by anyone. And how had Mysie chanced to arrive just at the critical moment? This was explained by the brother. On returning to the hotel, Donald had seen the advertisement, and had surmised where his father had gone. Hurrying up the North Bridge, he saw his sister, whom he had been picturing as a corpse lying at the police office, coming to meet him in her usual dress and manner. For an instant he felt like one in a dream. Could it really be she? His next thought was that she had been in some way brought back to life, and was hurrying down to relieve their fears; and when he heard that she had never been in the police office, he told her about the advertisement, and the two together made all haste to see their father. Mysie stood for some time gazing at the dead face, and feeling for that poor young creature, who was so like her, a sort of kinship. And as she gazed, she read herself a severe lesson. What was her own trouble, she thought, contrasted with the terrible fate that had befallen this unknown one? A small trouble indeed! To be cast off by a man who had proved himself unworthy of her! Not a trouble at all, but a blessed relief! And as these thoughts passed through her mind, her spirit rose with a sudden impulse and threw off the incubus of melancholy that had so long weighed it down; and she came away, leaving, as it were, her dead self behind her. And when, after staying for a month with her cousin, till the sensation caused by "the wonderful case of mistaken identity" subsided, she returned home and resumed her duties, she had recovered her health and good spirits. Taking her place in the shop, she devoted herself to the helping of her parents and the serving of their customers. And when any of the more inveterate gossips referred to her late painful experiences, she would stop them short with a good-natured smile, and the remark—"that's an auld sang noo, and it's no' worth the mindin'." Everybody was delighted to see that she was her old self again. "Why," said old Mrs Raeburn, the doctor's mother, "the toon wasna like itsel withoot ye." One day the Rev. Mr Patullo, with his wife and son, called in, to welcome her on her return. "You see," said the minister, "I could not want you, Mysie. You are my best specimen of a cheerful practical Christian. You are as good as a sermon." "My certie," said Mrs Patullo, "far more interesting than the most of sermons." "Though rather floury," added Tom, pointing to her hands. But the best proof that Mysie's good-natured equanimity was restored, was her treatment of her faithless lover, Bob Dallas. His scandalous treatment of her had brought him into disgrace. Many of his friends had cut his acquaintance. Even his betrothed, Bessie Gayley, ashamed of herself and ashamed of him, had refused in the end to marry him. He was now completely humiliated, and when he met Mysie in the street soon after her return, he could not look her in the face. But Mysie was too good-natured and sensible to keep up any ill-feeling towards this weak creature. So, the next time that she saw him she said, "Good morning"; and by and by she got into the habit of stopping to have a chat with him. At the same time, she took care to keep his familiarity within proper bounds. When, encouraged by her frankness and deluded by his own conceit, he imagined that she was still in love with him, and actually had the infatuation to refer to past times, she caught him up at once. "Mr Dallas! remember we are friends, nothing more. And as a friend let me give you this advice: Don't think of marrying in this country. One wife would not be enough for you. Go out to the Salt Lake City, and there, as soon as you are tired of one spouse, you will be able to take another. Or perhaps, you as well as myself are doomed to remain single. I am too ugly to be married; you are too good-looking. It would be selfish in anyone to monopolise a man who gives so much pleasure to all the girls in the place." At the end of many years, Bob Dallas and Mysie Gow were respectively an old bachelor and an old maid. Bob winced keenly under the marring finger of Time, and, by means of wig, paint, powder, and a jaunty manner, tried to hide its ravages and to make the people believe that he was still young. He did not convince the people; but it is said that, sometimes at least, he managed to convince himself. On one occasion, while talking about his infant nephew, he said, "he's a fine little fellow," and running his fingers through his luxuriant artificial locks, he added, "with a head of hair as thick and as black as my own." Consequently he was seen at every gay gathering, bearing himself like an Adonis, and paying assiduous attention to the young ladies; and when they, fooling him to the top of his bent, gathered round him and bandied compliments with him, he put on a youthful air and silently congratulated himself that he was still "Bob Dallas, the Invincible." "An auld donnert eediot," said the indignant Mrs Chatteris, the town-clerk's widow, "deckin' himsel up like an antic for the lasses to giggle at." "You're too hard upon him," said her son Joe. "He's more useful than that. He's an old battered figurehead, used by the girls as a butt for practising their arrows on." Mysie, on the other hand, received the first touches of age in the most cheerful spirit, and wore her grey hair like a becoming ornament, and made her wrinkles shine with good humour; and, as her years grew fewer, she tried more and more to fill them, with grateful feelings towards her Maker and kind words and deeds towards her fellow-creatures. Many years ago a new class of preachers started suddenly up in the country. They were called the sensational school, and were not unlike a certain section of the clergy in the present day. Their motto seemed to be: "Catch the public, by dignified means if you can, but by all means catch the public." Their rules for doing this were these: "Choose as the subject of your sermon some prevalent vice; denounce it in the plainest and strongest language; threaten those who practise it, or even encourage it, with all the misery of this world and all the eternal woes of the next; draw your illustrations hot from ordinary life; if they are vulgar or grotesque, and excite a titter, never mind; one great end is gained if by any means they arouse the interest of the audience." The most promising member of this school was the Rev. Jeremiah MacGuffog, the new parish minister at Sandyriggs. He took the most solemn view of his office. He was placed there, he felt, as an ambassador of the Most High to denounce the iniquities that were lifting their heads on every side. It was no time for smooth words. Like the martyred prophets and reformers of old, he must boldly face the transgressors, tell them of their sins in the most direct language, and warn them of the terrible doom that awaits them. While he was a student in Glasgow, he had often heard that the most productive root of immorality in the rural districts was the Bothy System. Everyone seemed to condemn it, and not one word had been said in its defence. It was clearly his duty, therefore, to strike it down without delay. Accordingly, one Sunday not long after his settlement, he wound up his afternoon sermon with a most merciless attack upon the farmers. "The farmers," he said, "are a most respectable class of men, and I am deeply grieved to be compelled to say anything to wound their feelings; but I am here to tell them that they are responsible for what I call the running sore, which is draining the life-blood of morality and religion in the rural districts. I refer to the Bothy System. You, my brethren, are really treating your fellow-men like your cattle. You lodge them in a dirty and uncomfortable outhouse, and leave them there to corrupt each other. Did I say that you treated them like your cattle? I should have said worse than your cattle. For you do not prepare food for them, you do not tie them up, you do not lock them in and prevent them from roaming abroad at night and falling into mischief. I am sorry that I am obliged to use strong language, but in the faithful discharge of my duty I am called upon to say that these bothies are nurseries of the infernal pit, and that you who keep them up are, though you may not know it, really serving the devil." It would be impossible to describe the volcano of feeling which this onslaught roused within the souls of the farming population. They could scarcely keep their seats till the service was over; then, when they went out of church and took their way homewards in the grey winter dusk, the turmoil within them was almost too strong for expression; and for a time they could only vent it in such explosive epithets, as "nurseries o' the infernal pit!" "servants o' the deevil!" "ill-tongued cratur!" "empty-headed puppy!" "set him up!" "my certie!" But by the time they reached the foot of the Long Dykes, where the road divided into three, a group of them, both men and women, stood still to compare notes. "Sic a desecration o' the poopit!" said Mrs Dowie of Seggie Den; "instead o' preachin' the gospel, misca'in honest folk." "Eh, woman!" exclaimed Mrs Caw of Blawearie, "ye may say that. Him to turn up his nose at bothies, that was brocht up, they tell me, in a one-roomed hoose in the wynds o' Glesky. My word, it doesna set a soo to wear a saddle." "Low-born smaik," said Mrs Proud of the Hill, "to scandaleese his betters!" "I dinna ken," said Tam Bluff of Cuddiesknowes, "what they teach them at college, but it's evidently no' mainners." "Settin' servants against their maisters," said Stables, the horse doctor, a Tory of the old school. "What could ye expect," asked Ure, the innkeeper at Blawearie Yetts, "from a teetotaller? Did ye hear hoo he blackguarded onybody that had onything to dae wi' makin' or sellin' an honest drap o' drink. Haith! it's my opinion that when the Maister comes to the warld a second time, they'll steek in His face the door o' His ain kirk, because He ance turned water into wine." Then Manson of the Hole, who had been standing by, red with rage, now began to splutter forth his resentment. He was a cantankerous old bachelor, greedy, miserly, and wealthy. If any bothy in the neighbourhood deserved to be tabooed, it was his. That was the reason for his feeling the most aggrieved. "By the Lord Hairy," he said, "I'll astonish the dirty cratur. I'll hae a ring in his nose before he's a week aulder. I'll ceet him before the Presbytery, and if that wunna dae, before the Synod and the General Assembly; and if I canna get Justice there, I'll gang to the Law. Don't ye think I'm richt, Gilbert Strang?" The man who was thus addressed, and who now came up, was evidently somewhat inferior in station to the rest of the group. In fact, at first sight he looked shabby. His hat was weather-stained, his clothes were threadbare and even darned in some places, and his boots were rough and clumsy. But his well-developed figure, his clean-cut and healthy features, and his big blue eyes, gave him, in spite of his mean apparel, a look of superiority. Nay, the neat patches on his coat seemed, in some odd way, to be badges of respectability. He was the son of a small laird; but his father had recently died, a heartbroken bankrupt; the property had been sold; he had been left the sole support of his widowed mother, and had been obliged to hire himself out as an ordinary ploughman; and it was understood that he was now pinching himself to save money, in order, if possible, to redeem the little family inheritance. Gilbert Strang, in fact, was one of those hardy human plants that can grow and flourish mentally and morally in any soil. He had been but a few years under the village teacher. The school in which he had learnt most was the world, where the lessons are undoubtedly very difficult, but, if once mastered, are most salutary. In the few books which he had, in the weekly sermons to which he listened, in the ever-varying shows of earth and sky, and in the rustic gatherings and merrymakings, he got abundant food both for mind and heart. Then, during the long quiet days when he was guiding the plough in the meadow, he found a favourite opportunity for thinking over what he had seen and read, and for forming his notions of men and things. In this way, he had made up his mind on most of the subjects that crop up in rural life, and was able to express his views, not only in the broad vernacular, but also, when occasion called, in good English. Altogether, he was a fair specimen of a man of Nature's own training, or what pious people used to call "one of God Almighty's own scholars." "Don't you think I wad be richt, Gilbert Strang, to ceet him before the Presbytery, and if I canna get redress there to try the Law?" "Ye wad be just playin' into his haunds, Mr Manson." "In what way, Gilbert?" "Ye wad mak him staund oot before the public as a martyr, and that's what a' thae kind want to be. What I would advise wad be, to gie him rope." "What dae ye mean, Gilbert?" "He kens the bothies only by hearsay; and he has spoken a lot o' nonsense aboot them. Let him alane. He'll gang deeper and deeper into the mess. Then he'll find himsel in a habble and be obleeged to apologeese." "Apologeese!" cried Manson, "catch a minister apologeese! Dod man! they're never wrang. At the time o' the Reformation, they jist shifted the doctrine o' infallibility from the Pope's shouthers on to their ain; and now, instead o' ane, we hae thousands o' Popes." "That may be," replied Strang, "only ca' canny. Look before ye loup. Mind the proverb, 'Haste maks waste.'" "Dod that's true," replied Manson. "But eh man! I wad gie a gude roond sum to see the gabbie body obleeged to tak back and swallow a' the nonsense he's been talkin'." "Weel!" said Gilbert, "ye'll soon see it." Two days after this conversation on the road, winter weather had come, in all its severity. It was seven o'clock at night. Outside the farm-house of Pitlour, the cold round moon looked down upon snow-clad roofs and stacks, icicles hanging from the eaves, the pump in the barnyard sheathed in straw, and the ploughs hard bound in the meadow by the frost. But inside in the bothy, which was attached to the house, all was bright and warm. A fire made of wood and coals blazed in the chimney; an old-fashioned oil lamp called a cruisie, hung from the mantelpiece; and the combined light of these two fell upon three well-fed, well-conditioned, rustic faces. On one side of the chimney was Gilbert Strang, deeply interested in the weekly newspaper; on the other side was his fellow-ploughman, Sandy Downie, laboriously scraping out of his fiddle the tune of "Auld Lang Syne"; and in front of the blaze was Jim Lochty, the cattle boy, with a copy of Burns in his hand, crooning over the words of a familiar song. In the background, two bedsteads made of rough wood, but with white pillows and sheets, looked snug and comfortable. The occupants were interrupted by a knock at the door, and who should walk in but the Rev. Jeremiah MacGuffog. He apologised for what might be called "a surprise visit." But he said he held the opinion that the minister was the friend of everyone in the parish, and that he should be able to drop in upon his parishioners unceremoniously at any time, and take them as he found them. Strang said that they were glad to see him, and asked him to take a seat. Sitting down and scanning the place carefully, the minister said: "You heard from my sermon on Sabbath that I am deeply interested in the bothy question; and I want to be thoroughly acquainted with it." Strang smiled and said to himself: "Jeddart Justice. He condemned and executed us on Sunday, and now he is going to try us." "I must confess," said the minister, "that I am surprised to see your place look so tidy and comfortable. You heard, I suppose, that I was coming." "No," said Strang. "The good wife, Mrs Wedderspoon, looks upon this as part of her own house, and is just as particular about it as she is about the rooms where her two sons sleep. No place could be cleaner or more comfortable." "But your food?" asked the minister. "Is it not rather coarse?" "Well, sir!" replied Strang, "it would be coarse to the like of you. But for hard working, healthy, country folk, out in the open air, could anything be better than well-boiled porridge and sweet milk for breakfast and supper, and kail and meat and potatoes for dinner? And looking at us, you would say that our food agrees with us." "Then," said the minister, after a thoughtful pause, "I am sorry to see that you have no means of improving your mind. You seem to have no books." "Oh yes," said Strang, opening the door of a cupboard, "we have a few. Look! here are Brown's 'Dictionary of the Bible,' 'Shakespeare,' some of Sir Walter Scott's works; and Jim has 'Burns' in his hand. Anyone who masters all these is better educated than most people." "I'm surprised," remarked the minister gravely, "that you read 'Burns.' He has some very objectionable passages." "He's a mixture of good and bad," replied Strang, "just like every other author. If we read no author that is not absolutely pure, we shall read none at all. He's a poor creature that can't pick out the good and throw away the bad." "I suppose," remarked the minister, "that there is a good deal of whisky consumed here sometimes?" "For months," said Strang, "we never taste it." |
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