“Surely, surely,” responded the landlord; “the sooner the better. Just read me ower their names, sir, and I’ll tak ye round to their houses. We hae a better chance o’ gettin’ them in at nicht than through the day.”
Accompanied by the lord of the Cross-Keys, I accordingly visited the leading inhabitants of the village, and made what an expectant member of Parliament would consider a very satisfactory canvass. I was received with much courtesy and civility; and the minister of the parish, to whom I had a letter of introduction from a brother clergyman in Edinburgh, paid me the most flattering attentions, and pressed me to take up my abode immediately at St Dunstan. The ladies, married and unmarried, with whom I entered into conversation, were all unanimous in expressing their desire that I should remain in their midst. Indeed, I have observed that the female sex invariably take the greatest interest in the settlement of ministers and doctors. I could easily understand why the unmarried ladies should prefer a single gentleman like myself; but I could not comprehend at the time why their mothers seemed to take so much interest in a newly-fledged M.D. It struck me that the landlord of the inn must have committed a great mistake in describing Dr Sommerville as the favourite of all classes.
From many of the people upon whom we called I received kind invitations to spend the night in their houses, and I could have slept in a dozen different beds if I had felt so inclined; but I preferred returning to the Cross-Keys, that, like the Apostle, I might be burdensome to none. It is a piece of worldly prudence to give as little trouble as possible to strangers; and medical practitioners, of all men in the world, require to be wary in their ways, and circumspect in their actions.
On our return to the inn, the landlord appeared to regard my settlement in St Dunstan as a certainty.
“Ye’ve got on grandly the nicht, Dr Wilson,” he said, dropping the “sir” when he considered me almost installed in office. “Ye’ve carried everything afore ye—I never saw the like o’t. Ye hae got the promise o’ practice frae the hale lot o’ them—that’s to say, when they need the attendance o’ a medical man; and, ’od, doctor, but the womenkind are aften complainin’.”
“Well, Mr Barlas,” I said (such was the landlord’s name), “I have experienced much kindness and civility, and in the course of a few hours I have far outstripped my expectations. If I only succeed as well with the ladies and gentlemen in the neighbourhood, I will not hesitate for a moment in settling down in the midst of you.”
“There’s nae danger o’ that, doctor. What’s sauce or senna for the goose is sauce or senna for the gander. I’ve seen aften eneuch that the grit folk are no sae ill to please as the sma’. If ye get ower the Laird,—an’ I think ye’ve as gude a chance as ony ither body,—ye needna fear muckle for the rest.”
“And who is the Laird, Mr Barlas?” I asked.
“Oh, just the Laird, ye ken—Laird Ramsay o’ the Haugh; ye’ll surely hae heard o’ him afore you cam south?”
“Ramsay,” I said; “Ramsay—oh, yes,—I have a letter of introduction to a gentleman of that name from a professor in Edinburgh. Does he rule the roast in this neighbourhood?”