aboriginal taproot of the race. A thousand interests spring up in

the process of the ages, and a thousand perish; that is now an
eccentricity or a lost art which was once the fashion of an empire;

and those only are perennial matters that rouse us to-day, and that
roused men in all epochs of the past. There is a certain critic,

not indeed of execution but of matter, whom I dare be known to set
before the best: a certain low-browed, hairy gentleman, at first a

percher in the fork of trees, next (as they relate) a dweller in
caves, and whom I think I see squatting in cave-mouths, of a

pleasant afternoon, to munch his berries - his wife, that
accomplished lady, squatting by his side: his name I never heard,

but he is often described as Probably Arboreal, which may serve for
recognition. Each has his own tree of ancestors, but at the top of

all sits Probably Arboreal; in all our veins there run some minims
of his old, wild, tree-top blood; our civilised nerves still tingle

with his rude terrors and pleasures; and to that which would have
moved our common ancestor, all must obediently thrill.

We have not so far to climb to come to shepherds; and it may be I
had one for an ascendant who has largely moulded me. But yet I

think I owe my taste for that hillside business rather to the art
and interest of John Todd. He it was that made it live for me, as

the artist can make all things live. It was through him the simple
strategy of massing sheep upon a snowy evening, with its attendant

scampering of earnest, shaggy aides-de-champ, was an affair that I
never wearied of seeing, and that I never weary of recalling to

mind: the shadow of the night darkening on the hills, inscrutable
black blots of snow shower moving here and there like night already

come, huddles of yellow sheep and dartings of black dogs upon the
snow, a bitter air that took you by the throat, unearthly harpings

of the wind along the moors; and for centre piece to all these
features and influences, John winding up the brae, keeping his

captain's eye upon all sides, and breaking, ever and again, into a
spasm of bellowing that seemed to make the evening bleaker. It is

thus that I still see him in my mind's eye, perched on a hump of
the declivity not far from Halkerside, his staff in airy flourish,

his great voice taking hold upon the hills and echoing terror to
the lowlands; I, meanwhile, standing somewhat back, until the fit

should be over, and, with a pinch of snuff, my friend relapse into
his easy, even conversation.

CHAPTER VII. THE MANSE
I HAVE named, among many rivers that make music in my memory, that

dirty Water of Leith. Often and often I desire to look upon it
again; and the choice of a point of view is easy to me. It should

be at a certain water-door, embowered in shrubbery. The river is
there dammed back for the service of the flour-mill just below, so

that it lies deep and darkling, and the sand slopes into brown
obscurity with a glint of gold; and it has but newly been recruited

by the borrowings of the snuff-mill just above, and these, tumbling
merrily in, shake the pool to its black heart, fill it with drowsy

eddies, and set the curded froth of many other mills solemnly
steering to and fro upon the surface. Or so it was when I was

young; for change, and the masons, and the pruning-knife, have been
busy; and if I could hope to repeat a cherished experience, it must

be on many and impossible conditions. I must choose, as well as
the point of view, a certain moment in my growth, so that the scale

may be exaggerated, and the trees on the steep opposite side may
seem to climb to heaven, and the sand by the water-door, where I am

standing, seem as low as Styx. And I must choose the season also,
so that the valley may be brimmed like a cup with sunshine and the

songs of birds; - and the year of grace, so that when I turn to
leave the riverside I may find the old manse and its inhabitants

unchanged.
It was a place in that time like no other: the garden cut into

provinces by a great hedge of beech, and over-looked by the church
and the terrace of the churchyard, where the tombstones were thick,

and after nightfall "spunkies" might be seen to dance at least by
children; flower-plots lying warm in sunshine; laurels and the

great yew making elsewhere a pleasinghorror of shade; the smell of
water rising from all round, with an added tang of paper-mills; the

sound of water everywhere, and the sound of mills - the wheel and
the dam singing their alternatestrain; the birds on every bush and

from every corner of the overhanging woods pealing out their notes
until the air throbbed with them; and in the midst of this, the

manse. I see it, by the standard of my childishstature, as a
great and roomy house. In truth, it was not so large as I

supposed, nor yet so convenient, and, standing where it did, it is
difficult to suppose that it was healthful. Yet a large family of

stalwart sons and tall daughters were housed and reared, and came
to man and womanhood in that nest of little chambers; so that the

face of the earth was peppered with the children of the manse, and
letters with outlandish stamps became familiar to the local

postman, and the walls of the little chambers brightened with the
wonders of the East. The dullest could see this was a house that

had a pair of hands in divers foreign places: a well-beloved house
- its image fondly dwelt on by many travellers.

Here lived an ancestor of mine, who was a herd of men. I read him,
judging with older criticism the report of childishobservation, as

a man of singularsimplicity of nature; unemotional, and hating the
display of what he felt; standingcontented on the old ways; a

lover of his life and innocent habits to the end. We children
admired him: partly for his beautiful face and silver hair, for

none more than children are concerned for beauty and, above all,
for beauty in the old; partly for the solemn light in which we

beheld him once a week, the observed of all observers, in the
pulpit. But his strictness and distance, the effect, I now fancy,

of old age, slow blood, and settled habit, oppressed us with a kind
of terror. When not abroad, he sat much alone, writing sermons or

letters to his scattered family in a dark and cold room with a
library of bloodless books - or so they seemed in those days,

although I have some of them now on my own shelves and like well
enough to read them; and these lonely hours wrapped him in the

greater gloom for our imaginations. But the study had a redeeming
grace in many Indian pictures, gaudily coloured and dear to young

eyes. I cannot depict (for I have no such passions now) the greed
with which I beheld them; and when I was once sent in to say a

psalm to my grandfather, I went, quaking indeed with fear, but at
the same time glowing with hope that, if I said it well, he might

reward me with an Indian picture.
"Thy foot He'll not let slide, nor will

He slumber that thee keeps,"
it ran: a strange conglomerate of the unpronounceable, a sad model

to set in childhood before one who was himself to be a versifier,
and a task in recitation that really merited reward. And I must

suppose the old man thought so too, and was either touched or
amused by the performance; for he took me in his arms with most

unwonted tenderness, and kissed me, and gave me a little kindly
sermon for my psalm; so that, for that day, we were clerk and

parson. I was struck by this reception into so tender a surprise
that I forgot my disappointment. And indeed the hope was one of

those that childhood forges for a pastime, and with no design upon
reality. Nothing was more unlikely than that my grandfather should

strip himself of one of those pictures, love-gifts and reminders of
his absent sons; nothing more unlikely than that he should bestow

it upon me. He had no idea of spoiling children, leaving all that
to my aunt; he had fared hard himself, and blubbered under the rod

in the last century; and his ways were still Spartan for the young.
The last word I heard upon his lips was in this Spartan key. He

had over-walked in the teeth of an east wind, and was now near the
end of his many days. He sat by the dining-room fire, with his

white hair, pale face and bloodshot eyes, a somewhat awful figure;
and my aunt had given him a dose of our good old Scotch medicine,