pectability. He, at least, never questioned it. The effect was
twofold.

Some of the "weak brethren" felt uncomfortable at being met on those
terms of equality. My father might have been practising on them the most
dreadful irony; and they were "that shy" and confused. But it was not
irony, not a bit of it; just a sense of respect, fine consideration for
the poor "sowls," well--respect, that's it, respect for all human
beings; _his_ respect made _them_ respectable. Wasn't it grand? To
others my father was a perfect Port-y-shee.[3] To be in the same room
with him was enough. To be conscious that he was there, that he didn't
fight strange of them, that he never dreamt of "scowlin'" them, that
they were treated as gentlemen. Oh the comfort, the gerjugh,[4] the
interval of repose! Extraordinary, though, was it not? To think of a
_Pazon_ respecting men's vices even; not as vices, God forbid! but as
parts of _them_, very likely all but inseparable from them; at any rate,
_theirs_. Pitying with an eternal pity, but not exposing, not rebuking.
My father would have considered he was "taking a liberty" if he had
confronted the sinner with his sin. Doubtless he carried this too far.
But don't suppose for a moment that the "weak brethren" thought he was
conniving at their weakness. Not they--they saw the delicacy of his
conduct. You don't think, do you, that these poor souls are incapable of
appreciating _delicacy_? God only knows how far down into their depths
of misery and degradation the sweetness of that delicacy descends. It
haunts the drunkard's dreams, and breathes a breath of purity into the
bosom of the abandoned. That is the power of a noble innocence, a
_respect_ for our fellow creatures--glib phrases, but how little
understood and acted on! With my father it was quite natural.... He was
a hot hater, though, I can tell you. He hated hypocrisy, he hated lying,
and he hated presumption and pretentiousness. He loved sincerity, truth,
and modesty. It seemed as if he felt sure that, with these virtues, the
others could not fail to be present. Was he far wrong? Yet how many
people would have thought him stern!

One dear old cousin of his comes to my mind. We called him U.T., that is
Uncle Tom. He was not our uncle--we never had one--but the uncle of our
predecessors at Kirk Braddan. And almost every Sunday evening he spent
at the Vicarage--poor old thing! He was quite silent. One thing, though,
he would say, as "regglar as cl