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 postscript 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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