neighbour for superstitious citizens! A rat scampering
within would send a shudder through the stoutest heart.
Here, if you like, was a sanitary parable, addressed by
our uncleanly forefathers to their own neglect.

And then we have Major Weir; for although even his
house is now demolished, old Edinburgh cannot clear
herself of his unholy memory. He and his sister lived
together in an odour of sour piety. She was a marvellous
spinster; he had a rare gift of supplication, and was
known among devout admirers by the name of Angelical
Thomas. 'He was a tall, black man, and ordinarily looked
down to the ground; a grim countenance, and a big nose.
His garb was still a cloak, and somewhat dark, and he
never went without his staff.' How it came about that
Angelical Thomas was burned in company with his staff,
and his sister in gentler manner hanged, and whether
these two were simply religious maniacs of the more
furious order, or had real as well as imaginary sins upon
their old-world shoulders, are points happily beyond the
reach of our intention. At least, it is suitable enough
that out of this superstitious city some such example
should have been put forth: the outcome and fine flower
of dark and vehement religion. And at least the facts
struck the public fancy and brought forth a remarkable
family of myths. It would appear that the Major's staff
went upon his errands, and even ran before him with a
lantern on dark nights. Gigantic females, 'stentoriously
laughing and gaping with tehees of laughter' at
unseasonable hours of night and morning, haunted the