The courteous reader cannot expect, after the lapse of so many years, that I should be able to recollect exactly the conversation which took place between my curators on the ever-memorable Monday. The substance, however, can never fade from my mind; it was prospective to an event that was to bias and colour all my future life, and it made an indelible impression. I do not, therefore, hesitate in giving the dialogue in its original form; soothing any reluctance which may happen to arise in my conscience for doing so, by recalling to mind that it will not be erroneous in the most important particulars. Indeed, on this occasion I have no alternative, for without the dramatic style, I should fail to convey a just and fair idea of the two gentlemen—now long departed and “remembered only for their virtues,”—as an amiable clergyman, who here shall be nameless—says as often as any, even the least correct in conduct of his parishioners, passes the Rubicon of eternity.

The affair was dignified to the household of Mr. Macindoe, with what in common talk is called, a company. Besides the Doctor and Mrs. Leach, Mrs. Busby and myself, the aforesaid Mr. Aird with his spouse from Glasgow were invited to dinner, and judiciously too, for it was with him that I was destined to be placed, if the Doctor should be consenting, and of his consent Mr. Macindoe made no bones, but with the habitual indulgence ever vouchsafed to his own intentions, he had previously determined it should come to pass.