"Weel, I dinna ken how it is, Richard," said a Selkirk dominie to his friend Richard Blackwell, a souter of the same royal borough—"I dinna ken how it is, but there's naething pleases me mair than some o' them Border Tales—they're so uncommonly natural. I've often thought, indeed, in my ain mind, that the writers must get silly, stupid folk to sit doun and repeat their little histories to them in their ain language; for I can hardly believe that such true delineations o' character, and such remarkable instances o' the ups and downs o' human affairs, are mere inventions. Frequently, when I finish a tale, I exclaim, 'I ken the man that's meant for;' and for a that, though the picture may be as like him as your ain face to its reflection in a looking-glass, it's ten to ane if the author is aware o' such a character being in existence. This is what puzzles me, Richard. The 'Henpecked Man,' for instance, was a dead hit; but unfortunately every village on the Borders claimed the bickermaker as well as Birgham; while ilk guidwife might hae been heard bawling to her next-door neighbour, as she shook the tale in her clenched hand, 'Filthy fallow! that's our John or your Ned he's been taking aff.'"
"It wadna be worth their while putting ony o' us twa into prent," rejoined the souter.
"I differ with you there, neighbour," replied the dominie; "for there is no calculating the value that clever and skilly hands can give to rude materials. Would ye believe, now, to use a funny illustration, that a farthing's worth o' pig-iron, made into steel chains, rises to mair than twa hundred times its value? Ye stare incredulously, Richard; but it's the truth I'm telling you;—so it follows that out o' the raw material o' our lives, value o' anither kind may be gotten by a proper adaptation o' incidents and the like: and it often occurs to me, there is that about my courtship that would make no that ill a story, were it a wee thocht embellished. Ye shall hear it, however, as it is, and judge for yoursel:"—
Love, ye must be informed, Richard, did not communicate itself to my heart till I was well up in years—probably when I was seven-and-twenty, or thereabouts—nor did it blaze up a' at once, like a sudden flame—for it seemed at first but a sma' sma' spark, which often threatened to go out o' its ain accord, like coals kindled with green sticks—till Margery Johnson—that's my wife's maiden name—would have come across my path again like a bonny blink o' sunshine, and presently the dying embers would grow het once more at the heart, and burn away for a' the world like a blown-up fire. Now, though Margery, when I went a-courting her, didna possess ony great personal attractions to make a sang about—like the feck o' your grand romance leddies—yet she had that life and buoyancy about her, and blowsy healthiness o' countenance, which can make a deeper impression on the heart, at least, according to my liking, than a' the fine complexions, blue een, and artificial forms in the world. Margery was a little above the middle height—a plump, robust, guid-looking lass—the apple o' her faither's eye, and the pride o' her mother—whom everybody spoke well o'. And it was not without either choice or reflection that my passion for Margery Johnson was imbibed. Her faither, who is as guid a man as ever broke the world's bread, attended the Rev. Mr Heslop as weel as mysel; and as the seat which I occupied gave me a full command o' him and his family—for they only sat about an arm's-length from me—I had the pleasure o' seeing Margery, with the lave, every returning Sabbath. I dinna ken rightly how it was, but when she slipped along the aisle, I felt like a shortness o' breath, and a queer tingling sensation steal owre my whole body. In the time o' the singing, too, I could not help from keeking off the psalm-book, had it been to save me, to see if she were looking at me; and when our glances happened to encounter, I would have instantly reddened to the bottom o' the haffets, and impudently pretended, by casting my eyes carelessly up to the big front window, that it was merely a casual contact. I cannot take upon me to say how far this was sinful; but I ken that at such times I sat in a sort o' religious fervour, on terms o' kindness with my bitterest enemy—for weel can love teach a moral to the mind—while my heart seemed rinning owre with gratitude to the Deity for this new proof o' his benevolence and goodness, in the provision made for puir erring mankind.
I'm no sure whether I have mentioned that Margery was in the service o' the minister—if no, ye must understand that she was his housemaid; and the manse, ye may weel conceive, Richard, was not the best place in the world for carrying on a courtship. I happened to be muckle thought on, however, by the minister and his wife—for my learning, ye see, brought me within a very little o' the minister himsel—indeed, we were nearly a buckle; and I, accordingly, had frequent invitations from him on a week-day night, to drink tea and spend the evening. On those occasions, unfortunately, I only saw Margery when she brought in and carried out the tea things; but one night, when the minister and I were indulging ourselves after the four-hours was owre (I may mention, for your edification, Richard, that four-hours signifies the time o' drinking tea,—four, according to Watson, being the ancient hour for the afternoon beverage)—it was after our tea was done, as I was saying, that the minister and I sat down to a glass o' whisky-toddy; and, as we both got very cracky, the minister says to me, jocularly, for he was a pleasant, agreeable man, Mr Heslop—
"I wonder, James, ye never think o' changing your life!"
Now, it did not just strike me, at first, what he meant; so I bluntly replied, "Yes, sir; I am weel aware, as the heathen philosopher has beautifully observed, Proba vita est via in cœlum—which signifies, A good life is the way to heaven."
With that the minister and his wife kinked and laughed a guid ane; and the latter at last cried out to me—
"Mr Heslop means, James, that you should get married."
"Oh, is that what he's driving at?" says I, colouring at my ain want o' gumption—"truly it's no a slight matter to get married, though I'll no be after denying that, could I fall in with a likely, serious young woman, I should have no great objections to make her my wife."