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Updated: June 3, 2025
Patrick Jamieson, M.A., Schoolmaster, Drumtochty, N.B., and the address within was the British Museum. When Domsie read this letter to the school, he was always careful to explain that "Dr. Graham is the greatest living authority on beetles," and, generally speaking, if any clever lad did not care for Latin, he had the alternative of beetles.
They were married one forenoon in the study, with Drumsheugh and Domsie for witnesses the address given by the Doctor could hardly be distinguished from an ordination charge and John announced his intention of accompanying his master that afternoon to the General Assembly, while Rebecca remained in charge of the manse.
Domsie solemnly unfolded the letter, and brought down his spectacles. "Edinburgh, April 7th." Then he looked at Whinnie, and closed his mouth. "We'll tell it first to his mither." "Yer richt, Dominie. She weel deserves it. A'm thinking she's seen us by this time." So we fell into a procession, Dominie leading by two yards; and then a strange thing happened.
"It was the verra nicht o' the Latin prose I cam up to speak aboot the college, and ye thocht Geordie hed been playing truant." Whinnie laughed uproariously, but Domsie heeded not. "It was awfu' work the next twa years, but the Doctor stood in weel wi' the Greek.
Marget met us at the end of the house beside the brier bush, where George was to sit on summer afternoons before he died, and a flash passed between Domsie and the lad's mother. Then she knew that it was well, and fixed her eyes on the letter, but Whinnie, his thumbs in his armholes, watched the wife.
She swept us into one brief flush of gratitude, from Domsie to Posty. "Neeburs, ye were a' his freends, and he wanted ye tae ken hoo yir trust wes mickle help tae him in his battle." There was a stir within us, and it came to birth in Drumsheugh of all men: "Marget Hoo, this is no the day for mony words, but there's juist ae heart in Drumtochty, and it's sair."
There was something about telling his mother, and his gratitude to his schoolmaster, but Domsie heard no more. He tried to speak and could not, for a rain of tears was on his hard old face. Domsie was far more a pagan than a saint, but somehow he seemed to me that day as Simeon, who had at last seen his heart's desire, and was satisfied.
He had a leaning to classics and the professions, but Domsie was catholic in his recognition of "pairts," and when the son of Hillocks' foreman made a collection of the insects of Drumtochty, there was a council at the manse. "Bumbee Willie," as he had been pleasantly called by his companions, was rescued from ridicule and encouraged to fulfil his bent. Once a year a long letter came to Mr.
Marget was moving about the garden, and she told me that George looked at Domsie wistfully, as if he had something to say and knew not how to do it. After a while he took a book from below his pillow, and began, like one thinking over his words: "Maister Jamieson, ye hae been a gude freend tae me, the best I ever hed aifter my mither and faither.
"Campbell's a censorious body, Drumsheugh," and Domsie shut his snuff-box lid with a snap. Drumsheugh nodded to the fathers of our commonwealth, and they went into kirk with silent satisfaction. Lachlan had been classified, and Peter Bruce, who prided himself on keeping in touch with Drumtochty, passed the word round the Kildrummie train next market night.
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