failings, he
stuttered lamentably. He became an inmate of the kitchen of Cromarty
House; and learned to run, or, I should rather say, to _limp_,
errands--for he had risen from the fever that ruined him to run no
more--with great fidelity and success. He was fond of church-going, of
reading good little books, and, notwithstanding his sad stutter, of
singing. During the day, he might be heard, as he hobbled along the
streets on business, "_singing in into himself_," as the children used
to say, in a low unvaried under-tone, somewhat resembling the humming of
a bee; but when night fell, the whole town heard him. He was no
patronizer of modern poets or composers. "There was a ship, and a ship
of fame," and "Death and the fair Lady," were his especial favourites;
and he could repeat the "Gosport Tragedy," and the "Babes in the Wood,"
from beginning to end. Sometimes he stuttered in the notes, and then
they lengthened on and on into a never-ending quaver that our first-rate
singers might have envied. Sometimes there was a sudden break--Jock had
been consulting the pocket in which he stored his bread; but no sooner
was his mouth half-cleared than he began again. In middle-life, however,
a great calamity overtook Jock. His patron, the occupant of Cromarty
House, quitted the country for France: Jock was left without occupation
or aliment; and the streets heard no more of his songs. He grew lank and
thin, and stuttered and limped more painfully than before, and was in
the last stage of privation and distress; when the benevolent proprietor
of Nigg, who resided half the year in a town-house in Cromarty, took
pity upon him, and introduced him to his kitchen. And in a few days Jock
was singing and limping errands with as much energy as ever. But the
time at length came when his new benefactor had to quit his house in
town for his seat in the country; and it behoved Jock to take temporary
leave of Cromarty, and follow him. And then the poor imbecile man of the
town-kitchen had, of course, to measure himself against his formidable
rival, the vigorous idiot of the country one.

On Jock's advent at Nigg--which had taken place a few weeks previous to
my engagement in the burying-ground of the parish--the character of
Angus seemed to dilate in energy and power. He repaired to the
churchyard with spade and pickaxe, and began digging a grave. It was a
grave, he said, for wicked Jock Gordon; and Jock, whether he thought it
or no, had come to