We have
the best of it. Scenes in which our ancestors
thought deeply, acted fiercely, and died desperately,
are to us tales to divert the tedium of a winter's
evening, when we are engaged to no party, or beguile
a summer's morning, when it is too scorching
to ride or walk.
Yet I do not mean that my essays and narratives
should be limited to Scotland. I pledge myself to
no particular line of subjects; but, on the contrary,
say with Burns,
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.
I have only to add, by way of postcript to these
preliminary chapters, that I have had recourse to
Moliere's recipe, and read my manuscript over to
my old woman, Janet MacEvoy.
The dignity of being consulted delighted Janet;
and Wilkie, or Allan, would have made a capital
sketch of her, as she sat upright in her chair, instead
of her ordinary lounging posture, knitting
her stocking systematically, as if she meant every
twist of her thread, and inclination of the wires, to
bear burden to the cadence of my voice. I am afraid,
too, that I myself felt more delight than I ought
to have done in my own composition, and read a
little more oratorically than I should have ventured
to do before an auditor, of whose applause I was
not so secure.
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