284 THE JOURNEYMAN. 



like existence on the hill of Cromarty, were snapped 

 asunder ; a stronger circulation swept in fierce thrills 

 along his veins ; and with new hope, new ambition, 

 new aspiration, he girded up his loins for the race of 

 life. Hitherto, 'he professed just what he felt, to be 

 content with a table, a chair, and a pot, with a little fire 

 in his grate and a little meat to cook on it.' He pro- 

 fessed such contentment no longer ; for himself he could 

 have lived and died a working man, but he could not 

 endure the idea of his wife being in any rank save that 

 of a lady. 



Habitually self-conscious, observant of every event 

 in his mental history, Miller did not fail to mark the 

 change which had passed over him. In a letter written 

 in the summer of 1834 he describes it, with grace, 

 na'ivete', and lightness of touch, to her who was its cause. 

 The first part of the letter is unimportant, but it may as 

 well be inserted for the illustration it affords of his 

 simple and pleasurable mode of life in Cromarty at this 

 period. 



' CFomarty, Wednesday, 12 o'clock. 



1 1 am afraid you are still unwell. Your window 

 was shut till near ten this morning, and as I saw no light 

 from it last evening, I must conclude you went early to 

 bed. How very inefficient, my L , are the friendships 

 of earth ! My heart is bound up in you, and yet I can 

 only wish and regret, and, yes, pray. Well, that is 

 something. I cannot regulate your pulses, nor dissipate 

 your pains, nor give elasticity to your spirits ; but I 

 can implore on your behalf the great Being who can. 

 Would that both for your sake and my own my prayers 

 had the efficacy of those described by simple-hearted 



