of Fletcher. But then
Mrs. McPherson, as she chose to call herself--though the never a
McPherson was connected with her except by the ties of blood, which,
like those of all Celts, had their loose terminations dangling into
infinity at the beginning of the world's history--was given to
administering the contents of her savoury flesh-pots to others than the
family of Logie; yea, like a true Highlander, she delighted in having
henchmen--or haunchmen truly, in this instance--who gave her love in
return for her edible luxuries. It happened that our said Aminadab was
one of those favoured individuals; and it is lucky for this generation
that he was, for if he had not been, there would assuredly have been no
records of the Cradle and the black lady.

[note *: Mr. Fletcher had also the property of Balinsloe as well
as Logie. They've all passed into other hands.]

It was in a little parlour off the big kitchen that Janet received her
henchmen. And was there ever man so happy as our good Aminadab?--and
that for several human reasons, whereof the first was certainly the
Logie flesh-pots; the second, the stories about the romantic place
wherewith she contrived to garnish and spice these savoury mouthfuls;
and last, Janet herself, who was always under the feminine delusion that
she was the corporate representative of the first of these reasons, if,
indeed, the others were not mere _adjecta_, not to be taken into
account; whereas there were doubts if she was for herself ever counted
at all, except as the mere "old-pot" which contained the realities. And
their happiness would certainly have been complete if it had not
been--at least in the case of Aminadab--that it could be enjoyed only by
passing through that grim medium, a churchyard. But then, is not all
celestial bliss burdened by this condition; nay, is not even our earthly
bliss, which is a foretaste of heaven, only a flower raised upon the
rottenness of other flowers--a type of the soul as it issues from
corruption? Yes, Aminadab could not get to the holy of holies except by
passing through Logie kirkyard, a small and most romantic Golgotha, on
the left of the road leading to Lochee, whose inhabitants it contained,
and which was so limited and crowded, that one might prefigure it as one
of those holes or dungeons in Michael Angelo's pictures, belching forth
spirits in the shape of inverted tadpoles, the tail uppermost, and yet
representing ascending sparks. The wickets t