‘Noo, Doctor,’ said the bridegroom, as all present were composing themselves to listen to the religious part of the ceremony--‘Noo, Doctor, dinna scrimp the prayer, but tie a sicker knot; I hae nae broo o’ the carnality o’ five minute marriages, like the Glasgowers, and ye can weel afford to gie us half an hour, ’cause ye’re weel payt for the wind o’ your mouth: the hat and gloves I sent you cost me four-and-twenty shillings, clean countit out to my brother Charlie, that would na in his niggerality faik me a saxpence on a’ the liveries I bought frae him.’ This address occasioned a little delay, but order being again restored, the Reverend Doctor, folding his hands together, and lowering his eyelids, and assuming his pulpit voice, began the prayer. It was a calm and beautiful evening, the sun at the time appeared to be resting on the flaky amber that adorned his western throne, to look back on the world, as if pleased to see the corn and the fruits gathered, with which he had assisted to fill the wide lap of the matronly earth. We happened at the time to be walking alone towards Blantyre, enjoying the universal air of contentment with which all things at the golden sunsets of autumn invite the anxious spirit of man to serenity and repose. As we approached the little gate that opened to the footpath across the glebe by which the road to the village was abridged to visitors on foot, our attention was first drawn towards the wedding party, by the kindly, pleasing, deep-toned voice of the venerable pastor, whose solemn murmurs rose softly into the balmy air, diffusing all around an odour of holiness that sweetened the very sense of life. We paused, and uncovering, walked gently and quietly towards the spot, which we reached just as the worthy Doctor had bestowed the benediction. The bride looked blushing and expectant, but Walter, instead of saluting her in the customary manner, held her by the hand at arm’s length, and said to the Doctor, ‘Be served.’ ‘Ye should kiss her, bridegroom,’ said the minister. ‘I ken that,’ replied Watty, ‘but no till my betters be served. Help yoursel, Doctor.’ Upon which the Doctor, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, enjoyed himself as he was requested. ‘It’s the last buss,’ added Walter, ‘it’s the last buss, Betty Bodle, ye’ll e’er gie to mortal man while am your gudeman.’ ‘I did na think,’ said the Reverend Doctor aside to us, ‘that the creature had sic a knowledge o’ the vows.’ The pipes at this crisis being again filled, the guests, hand in hand, following the bridegroom and bride, then marched to the ornamented barn at Grippy, to which we were invited to follow; but what then ensued deserves a new chapter. CHAPTER XXX