What chiefly impressed me was the sober, not to say dismal, character of the whole thing. I saw no horse-play, no dancing, no kiss-in-the-ring, or games of any kind. One might have thought it was an ordinary market-day, but for the crowd and the cracking of the caps on the miniature rifles with which the lads were shooting for nuts. This, in fact, was the only popular amusement; and, as all the boys and young men took part in it, and all held the muzzle of their weapon within twelve or fourteen inches of the mark, I perceived that every proprietor of a nut-barrow would have been ruined if he had not secured himself against bankruptcy by prudently twisting the barrels of his firearms. There was, by the way, one other amusement besides the shooting for nuts: every young man presented every girl of his acquaintance with a handful of nuts or sweetmeats, the degree of his regard being indicated by the quantity offered. I convinced myself that some of the prettier and more popular girls must have carried home several pounds’ weight of saccharine matter. We did not leave the village till it was getting dark and the naphtha lamps were blazing at the stalls. Probably the fun was only beginning, but we did not stay to witness it. Happily, the drinking seemed to be confined to great, large-limbed farmers, on whom half a bottle of whisky seemed to make not the slightest impression, beyond loosening their tongues. As the night advanced, however, a change must have occurred, for I was told afterwards that Hamilton of Burnfoot (my friend of the coach and of the offertory) had been seen sitting upright in his gig, thrashing with all his might, and in perfect silence, a saddler’s hobby-horse, which some wag had put between the shafts in place of his steady old ‘roadster.’ On the way home Alec and I had some confidential conversation as to his future. ‘Mr. Blake,’ he began, ‘what do you think I ought to be?’ ‘How can I tell, Alec?’ I answered; ‘what would you like to be?’ ‘That’s just what I don’t know,’ said the lad gloomily. ‘I don’t know what I am fit for, or whether I am fit for anything. How can I tell, before I have seen anything of the world, what part I should try to play in it?’ ‘You have no strong taste in any direction?’ ‘No; I can’t say that I have. I like the country, but I am sick of the loneliness of my life here. I long to be out in the world, to be up and doing something, I hardly know what. You see, I know so little. What I should like is to go to college for the next three or four years--to Glasgow, or Edinburgh--and by that time I would have an idea what I could do, and what I should not attempt.’ ‘But do you think,’ I said, with some hesitation, ‘that you are ready to go to college?’ ‘Why not? Don’t you think I am old enough? I am almost nineteen. I dare say you think I am too ignorant; but there are junior classes for beginners. I can do Virgil and Cicero, and I think I could manage Xenophon and Homer.’