Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 13 by Alexander Leighton

Author:Alexander Leighton
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: Europe, History, England, Travel, Scotland, General, Literary, Great Britain, Nonfiction, Literature & Fiction, Essays, Classics, Travel Writing, Historical Study & Educational Resources
Published: 2010-10-26T18:30:00+00:00

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THE DOMINIE AND THE SOUTER.

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THE DOMINIE'S COURTSHIP.

"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

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