Sit half sae saft."
_Elegy on John Hogg._

We returned to town; and, after threading a few of the narrower lanes,
entered by a low door into a long dark room, dimly lighted by a fire. A
tall thin woman was employed in skinning a bundle of dried fish at a
table in a corner.

"Where's the guidman, Kate?" said my companion, changing the sweet pure
English in which he had hitherto spoken for his mother tongue.

"John's ben in the spence," replied the woman. "Little Andrew, the
wratch, has been makin' a totum wi' his faither's ae razor, an' the puir
man's trying to shave himsel yonder, an' girnan like a sheep's head on
the tangs."

"Oh, the wratch! the ill-deedie wratch!" said John, stalking into the
room in a towering passion, his face covered with suds and scratches--"I
might as weel shave mysel wi' a mussel shillet. Rob Ferguson, man, is
that you!"

"Wearie warld, John," said the poet, "for a' oor philosophy."

"Philosophy!--it's but a snare, Rob--just vanity an' vexation o'
speerit, as Solomon says. An' isna it clear heterodox besides? Ye study
an' study till your brains gang about like a whirligig; an' then, like
bairns in a boat that see the land sailin', ye think it's the solid
yearth that's turnin' roun'. An' this ye ca' philosophy; as if David
hadna tauld us that the warld sits coshly on the waters, an' canna be
moved."

"Hoot, John," rejoined my companion, "it's no me, but Jamie Brown, that
differs wi' you on these matters. I'm a Hoggonian, ye ken. The auld Jews
were, doubtless, gran' Christians, an' wherefore no guid philosophers
too? But it was cruel o' you to unkennel me this mornin' afore six, an'
I up sae lang at my studies the nicht afore."

"Ah, Rob, Rob!" said John--"studying in _Tam Dun's_ kirk. Ye'll be a
minister, like a' the lave."

"Mendin' fast, John," rejoined the poet. "I was in your kirk on Sabbath
last, hearing worthy Mr. Corkindale; whatever else he may hae to fear,
he's in nae danger o' '_thinking his ain thoughts_,' honest man."

"In oor kirk!" said John; "ye're dune, then, wi' precentin' in yer
ain--an' troth nae wonder. What could hae possessed ye to gie up the
puir chield's name i' the prayer, an' him sittin' at yer lug?"

I was unacquainted with the circumstance to which he alluded, and
requested an explanation. "Oh, ye see," said John, "Rob, amang a' the
ither gifts that he misguides, has the gift o' a sweet voice; an'
naething else would