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. And the result did not entirely encourage my plan of censorship.
Janet did indeed seriously incline to the account of my previous life,
and bestowed some Highland maledictions, more emphatic than courteous,
on Christie Steele's reception of a "shentlemans in distress," and of
her own mistress's house too. I omitted for certain reasons, or greatly
abridged, what related to her-self. But when I came to treat of my
general views in publication, I saw poor Janet was entirely thrown out,
though, like a jaded hunter, panting, puffing, and short of wind,
she endeavoured at least to keep up with the chase. Or, rather, her
perplexity made her look all the while like a deaf person ashamed of his
infirmity, who does not understand a word you are saying, yet desires
you to believe that he does understand you, and who is extremely jealous
that you suspect his incapacity. When she saw that some remark was
necessary, she resembled exactly in her criticism the devotee who
pitched on the "sweet word Mesopotamia" as the most edifying note
which she could bring away from a sermon. She indeed hastened to bestow
general praise on what she said was all "very fine;" but chiefly dwelt
on what I, had said about Mr. Timmerman, as she