Martha Spreull/Last Words by the Editor

by Henry Johnston

CLOSING NOTE.

BY THE EDITOR.

ELL there is not much left for me to say in bringing these sketches to a close. By a wondrous dispensation of an all-wise Providence the authoress is now more to me than I expected any woman would ever have been. As she has herself told you the story of our courtship in a frank and outspoken manner, it only remains for me to say that our marriage took place in due course. Dr. Threshie, our old friend, acted the part of best man, the which duty he performed with great tact and gentlemanly politeness. The best maids were two young nieces—daughters of my late lamented brother who died in India—who also got through their duties with exceeding ability. Indeed, there was not a hitch, save that I forgot the wedding ring. This caused great consternation to me, though it was productive of much merriment among the younger members of the company; but my partner was equal to the occasion. She had feared my possible forgetfulness, and knowing the minister would not marry without the ring—a baleful custom that is fast stealing into our presbyterian Zion,—she had most prudently provided one, the which she cunningly slipped into my band in the nick of time, as the saying is, and thereby prevented what might have been a scene of confusion, not to speak of embarassing delay.

We had, I think, just as fine a honeymoon as any young married couple could wish to enjoy. At my time of life I did not think to experience such unspeakable pleasure. It was not only a pleasure, but it was a revelation of which, in my long years of studious celibacy, I had but imperfect dreams. Having no powers of descriptive writing, I must content myself by remarking that, under the care of a most merciful Providence, we passed safely through many dangers by land and sea in railway trains and steam vessels. I would fain have settled down at once in some quiet sea-side resort to enjoy leisurely the sweets of matrimony, but my wife would see this and that, and was possessed of such a restless desire for ferlies in the way of sight-seeing, that I was nearly traiked off my feet, insomuch that I took a sore turn of rheumatic pains in the calfs of my legs, arising, as the doctor told us, from too much bodily exercise. This brought us at length to the sea-side. Here we rested for fully a week. My wife has great skill in specifics, and wrought a marvellous cure by the application of hot seaweed boiled in its native water. I make this remark for the benefit of those who may be overtaken by similar affliction. In three days’ time I could bend my houghs, and albeit they were not just so soople as I would have liked, with the aid of two sticks I was able to scramble out on the boulders and poke unwary limpets off the rocks into my wife’s hands on the beach below. That sea-side rest afforded me wonderful enjoyment. My wife, who is of a very inquiring turn of mind, spent much time in finding out the habits and modes of life amongst the simple fisher-folk, while I, when I was strong enough to be trusted by myself, would ramble by the lonely seabeach and in crannies of the shore, filling my pocket handkerchief with whelks and out-of-the-way shells, until I fancied myself back again in the happy days of boyhood.

I cannot fully express my thankfulness for the excellent weather we were favoured with, especially during the latter days of our too brief holiday. My wife lightly says it was only what we deserved, seeing we had waited so long for it; but I fear the remark almost savours of irreverence, for both the weather and the great blessings we had vouchsafed to us are altogether beyond our own poor deserts, and should inspire us both with deep and fervent thankfulness. Now we are home again and settling down into

quiet matrimonial ways. It is a wondrous change for

me. My old housekeeper, whose mortal remains were, six months ago, laid in their last abode by my own hands, was a woman who knew her place—she never presumed. I could sit at the breakfast table and take my coffee, with a book in my hand or a newspaper propped against the toast rack before me as long as I liked, and she would wait patiently without a word till I had drained the grounds of my cup—the signal for rising—before she would stir from the table. But all that is altered now. A strange mutation has taken place, I care for neither book nor newspaper. The morning meal seems not to need such concomitants. Even the air of the breakfast room has a refreshing and inviting callerness that cheers the spirit and im- proves the appetite. Pleasant and suggestive converse takes the place of the book and the newspaper; the memories of the morning serve to make the day happy, and stimulate the desire for an early return home. We have but one trouble, that is William Warstle, the bursar. In business he is getting on fairly enough, but he is full of restlessness in regard to the fundamental doctrines of our religious faith. The grand doctrine of foreordination is now his great stumbling-block. He has appealed to me as a lawyer, whether this belief is consistent with the exercise of free-will. The question, I have told him, is outwith the bounds of statutory law. My wife, however, with her boundless forbearance, has turned up her standar authority—David Whammond—but all he says is: "This is a profound doctrine full of kittleness to the carnal mind, whilk looks like contradictoriness; yet there are some things ower deep to be grasped by finite wisdom, and when sic difficulties arise we maun e'en humble oorsels reverently before them and submit to the eternal decrees." But this is not a satisfactory answer to the wayward lad, who wants everything in heaven and earth to square with reason. I wish he would stick to accounting and let theology alone. Such questions have no place on the Stock Exchange, and if they had I fear they would lead to little profit.

What more have I to say?

My wife tells me that the charm of this book lies in the editorial remarks that open and close it. This, I feel, is the extravagance of self abnegation under the influence of early love. To my mind, any merit it possesses lies in the part which she herself has contributed; but it is for the public to judge—not us. Palmam qui meruit ferat, which, by interpretation from the Latin tongue, means—Let him who has won the palm carry it.