On one of these occasions, as I was sauntering along the edge of
Eaglesham-wood, looking at the industrious bee going from flower to
flower, and the idle butterfly, that layeth up no store, but
perisheth ere it is winter, I felt as it were a spirit from on high
descending upon me, a throb at my heart, and a thrill in my brain,
and I was transported out of myself, and seized with the notion of
writing a book--but what it should be about, I could not settle to
my satisfaction. Sometimes I thought of an orthodox poem, like
PARADISE LOST, by John Milton, wherein I proposed to treat more at
large of Original Sin, and the great mystery of Redemption; at
others, I fancied that a connect treatise on the efficacy of Free
Grace would be more taking; but although I made divers beginnings in
both subjects, some new thought ever came into my head, and the
whole summer passed away and nothing was done. I therefore
postponed my design of writing a book till the winter, when I would
have the benefit of the long nights. Before that, however, I had
other things of more importance to think about. My servant lasses,
having no eye of a mistress over them, wastered every thing at such
a rate, and made such a galravitching in the house, that, long
before the end of the year, the year's stipend was all spent, and I
did not know what to do. At lang and length I mustered courage to
send for Mr Auld, who was then living, and an elder. He was a douce
and discreet man, fair and well-doing in the world, and had a better
handful of strong common sense than many even of the heritors. So I
told him how I was situated, and conferred with him; and he advised
me, for my own sake, to look out for another wife as soon as decency
would allow, which he thought might very properly be after the turn
of the year, by which time the first Mrs Balwhidder would be dead
more than twelve months; and when I mentioned my design to write a