The Surgeons Daughter | Page 9

as well as I do, and when she has given you the particulars,
then I am at your service, to condescend more articulately upon dates or
particulars."
Well, here was I, a gay old bachelor, left to hear a love tale from my
young friend Katie Fairscribe, who, when she is not surrounded by a
bevy of gallants, at which time, to my thinking, she shows less to
advantage, is as pretty, well-behaved, and unaffected a girl as you see
tripping the new walks of Prince's Street or Heriot Row. Old
bachelorship so decided as mine has its privileges in such a tete-a-tete,
providing you are, or can seem for the time, perfectly good-humoured
and attentive, and do not ape the manners of your younger years, in
attempting which you will only make yourself ridiculous. I don't
pretend to be so indifferent to the company of a pretty young woman as
was desired by the poet, who wished to sit beside his mistress--
--"As unconcern'd as when Her infant beauty could beget Nor
happiness nor pain."
On the contrary, I can look on beauty and innocence, as something of
which I know and esteem the value, without the desire or hope to make
them my own. A young lady can afford to talk with an old stager like
me without either artifice or affectation; and we may maintain a species
of friendship, the more tender, perhaps, because we are of different
sexes, yet with which that distinction has very little to do.
Now, I hear my wisest and most critical neighbour remark, "Mr.
Croftangry is in the way of doing a foolish thing, He is well to
pass--Old Fairscribe knows to a penny what he is worth, and Miss
Katie, with all her airs, may like the old brass that buys the new pan. I
thought Mr. Croftangry was looking very cadgy when he came in to
play a rubber with us last night. Poor gentleman, I am sure I should be
sorry to see him make a fool of himself."
Spare your compassion, dear madam, there is not the least danger. The
beaux yeux de ma casette are not brilliant enough to make amends for
the spectacles which must supply the dimness of my own. I am a little
deaf, too, as you know to your sorrow when we are partners; and if I

could get a nymph to marry me with all these imperfections, who the
deuce would marry Janet McEvoy? and from Janet McEvoy Chrystal
Croftangry will not part.
Miss Katie Fairscribe gave me the tale of Menie Gray with much taste
and simplicity, not attempting to suppress the feelings, whether of grief
or resentment, which justly and naturally arose from the circumstances
of the tale. Her father afterwards confirmed the principal outlines of the
story, and furnished me with some additional circumstances, which
Miss Katie had suppressed or forgotten. Indeed, I have learned on this
occasion, what old Lintot meant when he told Pope, that he used to
propitiate the critics of importance, when he had a work in the press, by
now and then letting them see a sheet of the blotted proof, or a few
leaves of the original manuscript. Our mystery of authorship has
something about it so fascinating, that if you admit any one, however
little he may previously have been disposed to such studies, into your
confidence, you will find that he considers himself as a party interested,
and, if success follows, will think himself entitled to no inconsiderable
share of the praise.
The reader has seen that no one could have been naturally less
interested than was my excellent friend Fairscribe in my lucubrations,
when I first consulted him on the subject; but since he has contributed a
subject to the work, he has become a most zealous coadjutor; and
half-ashamed, I believe, yet half-proud of the literary stock-company,
in which he has got a share, he never meets me without jogging my
elbow, and dropping some mysterious hints, as, "I am saying--when
will you give us any more of yon?"--or, "Yon's not a bad narrative--I
like yon."
Pray Heaven the reader may be of his opinion.

THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER THE

FIRST.
When fainting Nature call'd for aid, And hovering Death prepared the
blow, His vigorous remedy display'd The power of art without the show;
In Misery's darkest caverns known, His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan, And lonely Want retired to
die; No summons mock'd by cold delay, No petty gains disclaim'd by
pride, The modest wants of every day The toil of every day supplied.
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
The exquisitely beautiful portrait which the Rambler has painted of his
friend Levett, well describes Gideon Gray, and many other village
doctors, from whom Scotland reaps