Lament for a Maker

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It will appear full plain in this narrative that Mr Wedderburn, the writer from Edinburgh, is as guileful as he’s douce – and that he has need of all the guile that Eve passed on from the Serpent may be supposed, him with his living to make among the lawyers. Gleg he is. And as a first proof here is Ewan Bell, the shoemaker of Kinkeig, taking pen in hand to begin fashion a book – and all because of the way he has with him, Mr Wedderburn. It was like this.

We two were sitting in his private room at the Arms, with a glass of toddy against the weather; and, faith, in those last days I had been through more than snow and a snell December wind, so that time had been when I scarce thought to see toddy and a brave fire again. We sat chewing over the whole strange affair – such, certain, had never been known in these parts – and syne Mr Wedderburn looked up from his glass and ‘Mr Bell,’ he said, ‘more than anything else it has been like a novel.’

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