district of the county. All that I remember of them was the general, yet not unpleasing, intimation of a devotional character impressed on each little party, formally assumed perhaps by some, but sincerely characterising the greater number, which hushed the petulant gaiety of the young into a tone of more quiet, yet more interesting, interchange of sentiments, and suppressed the vehement argument and protracted disputes of those of more advanced age. Notwithstanding the numbers who passed me, no general sound of the human voice was heard; few turned again to take some minutes’ voluntary exercise, to which the leisure of the evening, and the beauty of the surrounding scenery, seemed to invite them: all hurried to their homes and resting-places. To one accustomed to the mode of spending Sunday evenings abroad, even among the French Calvinists, there seemed something Judaical, yet at the same time striking and affecting, in this mode of keeping the Sabbath holy. Insensibly, I felt my mode of sauntering by the side of the river, and crossing successively the various persons who were passing homeward, and without tarrying or delay, must expose me to observation at least, if not to censure, and I slunk out of the frequented path, and found a trivial occupation for my mind in marshalling my revolving walk in such a manner as should least render me obnoxious to observation. The different alleys lined out through this extensive meadow, and which are planted with trees, like the Park of St. James’s in London, gave me facilities for carrying into effect these childish manœuvres.

As I walked down one of these avenues, I heard, to my surprise, the sharp and conceited voice of Andrew Fairservice, raised by a sense of self-consequence to a pitch somewhat higher than others seemed to think consistent with the solemnity of the day. To slip behind the row of trees under which I walked was perhaps no very dignified proceeding; but it was the easiest mode of escaping his observation, and perhaps his impertinent assiduity, and still more intrusive curiosity. As he passed, I heard him communicate to a grave-looking man, in a black coat, a slouched hat, and Geneva cloak, the following sketch of a character, which my self-love, while revolting against it as a caricature, could not, nevertheless, refuse to recognise as a likeness.

“Ay, ay, Mr. Hammorgaw, it’s e’en as I tell ye. He’s no a’thegether sae void o’ sense neither; he has a gloaming sight o’ what’s reasonable—that is anes and awa’—a glisk and nae mair—but he’s crack- brained and cockle-headed about his nipperty-tipperty poetry nonsense—He’ll glower at an auld-warld barkit aik-snag as if it were a queez-maddam in full bearing; and a naked craig, wi’ a burn jawing ower’t. is unto him as a garden garnisht with flowering knots and choice pot-herbs; then, he wad rather claver wi’a daft quean they ca’ Diana Vernon (weel I wot they might ca’ her Diana of the Ephesians, for she’s little better than a heathen—better? she’s waur—a Roman—a mere Roman)—he’ll claver wi’ her, or ony other idle slut, rather than hear what might do him gude a’ the days of his life, frae you or me, Mr. Hammorgaw, or ony ither sober and sponsible person. Reason, sir, is what he canna endure—he’s a’ for your vanities and volubilities; and he ance tell’d me (puir blinded creature), that the Psalms of David were excellent poetry! as if the holy Psalmist thought o’ rattling rhymes in a blether, like his ain silly clinkum-clankum things that he ca’s verse. Gude help him! twa lines of Davie Lindsay wad ding a’ he ever clerkit.”

While listening to this perverted account of my temper and studies, you will not be surprised if I meditated for Mr. Fairservice the unpleasant surprise of a broken pate on the first decent opportunity. His friend only intimated his attention by “Ay, ay!” and “Is’t e’en sae?” and such like expressions of interest, at the proper breaks in Mr. Fairservice’s harangue, until at length, in answer to some observation of greater length, the import of which I only collected from my trusty guide’s reply, honest Andrew answered, “Tell him a bit o’ my mind, quoth ye?—Wha wad be fule then but Andrew?—He’s a red-wud deevil, man!—He’s like Giles Heathertap’s auld boar; ye need but shake a clout at him to make him turn and gore. Bide wi’ him, say ye?—Troth, I kenna what for I bide wi’ him mysell—But the lad’s no a bad lad after a’; and he needs some carefu’ body to look after him. He hasna the right grip o’ his hand—the gowd slips through’t like water, man; and it’s no that ill a thing to be near him when his purse is in his hand, and it’s seldom out o’t. And then he’s come o’ guid kith and kin—My heart warms to the puir thought less callant, Mr. Hammorgaw—and then the penny fee——”

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