While life in the dear old home-land had for me much that was sweet and attractive, it had yet been a “cribb’d, cabin’d, confin’d” life; my idea of men and things had of necessity been mainly drawn from within the narrow limits of an old world, rural district; in matters of faith and practice my mind had come to be in a state of great unrest, bordering on revolt. Life on the southern side of the Tweed was broader and more generous; the society into which I was cast had in it elements which could have been born only of a more comprehensive outlook and a greater interchange of thought; religion rested on a more Catholic basis. I have already told how for some time I had been looking toward the Rubicon; I crossed it when I crossed the Tweed. Not all at once, however. I had been many months in England before I could have said that my emancipation was complete. Shall I ever forget my first day in my new home? I had arrived in Tynecaster at an early hour on Sunday morning, and being very tired after my long journey I went to bed at once. When I awoke the sun was high in the heavens, and my ears were filled with the most delightful music I had ever heard. I rose, went to my window and drew up the blind. My room overlooked a goodly-sized park, enclosed by high stone walls. A regiment of soldiers were on parade, and their band was playing a stirring march. I could not understand it; did I not arrive on Sunday morning? I could not possibly have slept for a whole day--and yet, there was a band playing a march. I dressed hastily and made my way to the common-room, where one solitary man sat reading. I bade him good-morning, told him who I was (I had seen none of the staff on my arrival), and then, with some shame-facedness, I said: “Excuse me troubling you, but will you please tell me what day of the week this is?” My companion looked up in astonishment. He imagined, I think, that I was a little “off” in the upper story, and answered: “Why, it’s Sunday, old man. What makes you dubious?” “Well, I heard a band playing a march, that was all.” “Oh, yes, the ‘Noodles’--the Yeomanry, that is, are up for their annual training, and I suppose you heard the band playing them to church. You’ll get accustomed to these things by and by.” I said nothing, but thought a good deal. What would the douce folks in bonnie Glenconan think if they knew I had gone to a land where such doings were permitted! Why, the ministers would denounce it from every pulpit in the district.