_17 Heriot Row, Edinburgh, Friday, September 12, 1873._
... I was over last night, contrary to my own wish, in Leven, Fife; and
this morning I had a conversation of which, I think, some account might
interest you. I was up with a cousin who was fishing in a mill-lade, and
a shower of rain drove me for shelter into a tumble-down steading
attached to the mill. There I found a labourer cleaning a byre, with
whom I fell into talk. The man was to all appearance as heavy, as
_hebete_, as any English clodhopper; but I knew I was in Scotland, and
launched out forthright into Education and Politics and the aims of
one's life. I told him how I had found the peasantry in Suffolk, and
added that their state had made me feel quite pained and down-hearted.
"It but to do that," he said, "to onybody that thinks at a'!" Then,
again, he said that he could not conceive how anything could daunt or
cast down a man who had an aim in life. "They that have had a guid
schoolin' and do nae mair, whatever they do, they have done; but him
that has aye something ayont need never be weary." I have had to
mutilate the dialect much, so that it might be comprehensible to you;
but I think the sentiment will keep, even through a change of words,
something of the heartsome ring of encouragement that it had for me: and
that from a man cleaning a byre! You see what John Knox and his schools
have done.
_Saturday._--This has been a charming day for me from morning to now (5
P.M.). First, I found your letter, and went down and read it on a seat
in those Public Gardens of which you have heard already. After lunch, my
father and I went down to the coast and walked a little way along the
shore between Granton and Cramond. This has always been with me a very
favourite walk. The Firth closes gradually together before you, the
coast runs in a series of the most beautifully moulded bays, hill after
hill, wooded and softly outlined, trends away in front till the two
shores join together. When the tide is out there are great, gleaming
flats of wet sand, over which the gulls go flying and crying; and every
cape runs down into them with its little spit of wall and trees. We lay
together a long time on the beach; the sea just babbled among the
stones; and at one time we heard the hollow, sturdy beat of the paddles
of an unseen steamer somewhere round the cape. I am glad to say that the
peace of the day and scenery was not marred by any unpleasantness
between us two.
I am, unhappily, off my style, and can do nothing well; indeed, I fear I
have marred _Roads_ finally by patching at it when I was out of the
humour. Only, I am beginning to see something great about John Knox and
Queen Mary; I like them both so much, that I feel as if I could write
the history fairly.
_Sunday._--It has rained and blown chilly out of the East all day. This
was my first visit to church since the last Sunday at Cockfield. I was
alone, and read the minor prophets and thought of the past all the time;
a sentimental Calvinist preached--a very odd animal, as you may
fancy--and to him I did not attend very closely. All afternoon I worked
until half-past four, when I went out under an umbrella, and cruised
about the empty, wet, glimmering streets until near dinner time.
I have finished _Roads_ to-day, and send it off to you to see. The Lord
knows whether it is worth anything!--some of it pleases me a good deal,
but I fear it is quite unfit for any possible magazine. However, I wish
you to see it, as you know the humour in which it was conceived, walking
alone and very happily about the Suffolk highways and byeways on several
splendid sunny afternoons.--Believe me, ever your faithful friend,