Memoirs of Sir Wemyss Reid 1842-1885

Memoirs of Sir Wemyss Reid
1842-1885 (ed Stuart J. Reid)
[with accents]

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1842-1885
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Title: Memoirs of Sir Wemyss Reid 1842-1885
Author: Stuart J. Reid, ed.

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MEMOIRS OF SIR WEMYSS REID 1842-1885
[Illustration: Wemyss Reid]

MEMOIRS OF SIR WEMYSS REID 1842-1885
EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION, BY STUART J. REID
TO Lady Reid, THE DEVOTED WIFE OF MY BROTHER, THESE
PAGES ARE INSCRIBED.

EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION.
The sense of personal loss occasioned by my brother's death is still so
keen and vivid that if I am to write at all about him--and my duty in
that respect is clear--it must be out of the fulness of my heart. My
earliest recollections of him begin when I was a child and he was a
bright, self-reliant lad in the home at Newcastle, the characteristics of
which are with artless realism described in the opening pages of this
book. It is the simple truth to say that we grew up in an atmosphere of
love and duty. Our father was a man of studious habit, passing rich in
the possession of a library of dry works on theology which his children
never read, and among which they searched in vain for the fairy books
and stories, or even the poetry, dear to the youthful heart. He was a

faithful, rather than a gifted preacher, and I have always thought that
his power--it was real and far-reaching--lay in his modest, unselfish life,
and in that unfailing sympathy which kept him on a perpetual round of
visits to the sick and sorrowful, year in, year out. He had a quiet sense
of humour, and was never so happy as when he could steal a day off
from the insistent claims of pastoral work for a ramble in the country
with his boys.
Always a public-spirited man, and keenly interested in political affairs,
he talked to us freely about the events of the time, and made us feel that
the little affairs of our own home and immediate environment could
never be seen in their true perspective until they were set against the
larger life of the town, and, in a sense, of the nation. When any great
event occurred he used to tell us all about it; when any great man died,
if we did not know the significance of his life and the loss it meant to
the country, it was not his fault. He was a quiet, rather reserved man,
terribly in earnest, we thought, and with a touch of sternness about him
which vanished in later life. He mellowed with the passing years, and
long before old age crept quietly upon him the prevailing note of his
character was charity. He had been in early life associated to some
extent with the Press, and later had written one or two books, so that
ink was in my brother's blood.
Our mother was almost his opposite in character. She was quick,
almost imperious in temper, vivacious and witty of speech, full of sense
and sensibility, in revolt--I see it now--against the narrow conditions of
her lot, and yet bravely determined to do her best, not merely for her
husband and children, but for the rather austere little community in
which she was always a central figure. There was a charm about her to
which all sorts and sizes of people surrendered at discretion, and she
loved books more modern and more mundane than the dingy volumes
on my father's shelves. She had received, what was more