of Edinburgh. Of all towns in the world, however, Dalkeith for my money.
If the ignorant are dumfoundered at one of their own kidney--a tailor
laddie, that got the feck of his small education leathered into him at
Dominie Threshem's school--thinking himself an author, I would just
remind them that seeing is believing; and that they should keep up a good
heart, as it is impossible to say what may yet be their own fortune
before they die. The rich man's apology I would beg; if, in this humble
narrative, in this detail of manners almost hidden from the sphere of his
observation, I have in any instance tramped on the tender toes of good
breeding, or given just offence in breadth of expression, or vulgarity of
language. Let this, however, be my apology, that the only value of my
wonderful history consists in its being as true as death--a circumstance
which it could have slender pretensions to, had I coined stories, or
coloured them so as to please my own fancy and that of the world. In
that case it would have been very easy for me to have made a Sinbad the
Sailor's tale out of it--to have shown myself up a man such as the world
has never seen except on paper--to have made Cursecowl behave like a
gentleman, and the Frenchman from Penicuik crack like a Christian. And
to the poor man, him whom the wise Disposer of all events has seen fit to
place in a situation similar to that in which I have been placed,
ordaining him to earn daily bread by the labour of his hands and the
sweat of his brow, if my adventures shall afford an hour or two's
pleasant amusement, when, after working hours, he sits by his bleezing
ingle with a bairn on each knee, while his oldest daughter is sewing her
seam, and his goodwife with her right foot birls round the
spinning-wheel, then my purpose is gained, and more than gained; for it
is my firm belief that no man, who has by head or hand in any way
lightened an ounce weight of the load of human misery, can be truly said
to have been unprofitable in his day, or disappointed the purpose of his
creation. For what more can we do here below? The God who formed us,
breathing into our nostrils the breath of life, is, in his Almighty power
and wisdom, far removed beyond the sphere of our poor and paltry offices.
We are of the clay; and return to the elements from which we are formed.
He is a Spirit, without beginning of days or end of years. The extent of
our limited exertions reaches no further than our b