[21] One day my mother, and her only sister, Agnes--married to James Aitken of Cullands, a man before his class and his time, for long the only Whig and Seceder laird in Peeblesshire, and with whom my father shared the _Edinburgh Review_ from its beginning--the two sisters who were, the one to the other, as Martha was to Mary, sat talking of their household doings; my aunt was great upon some things she could do; my father looked up from his book, and said, "There is one thing, Mrs. Aitken, you cannot do--you cannot turn the heel of a stocking;" and he was right, he had noticed her make over this "kittle" turn to her mother.
I have said he was no swordsman, but he was a heavy shot; he fired off his ball, compact, weighty, the _maximum_ of substance in the _minimum_ of bulk; he put in double charge, pointed the muzzle, and fired, with what force and sharpness we all remember. If it hit, good; if not, all he could do was to load again, with the same ball, and in the same direction. You must come to him to be shot, at least you must stand still, for he had a want of mobility of mind in great questions. He could not stalk about the field like a sharp-shooter; his was a great sixty-eight pounder, and it was not much of a swivel. Thus it was that he rather dropped into the minds of others his authoritative assertions, and left them to breed conviction. If they gave them entrance and cherished them, they would soon find how full of primary truth they were, and how well they would serve them, as they had served him. With all this heavy artillery, somewhat slow and cumbrous, on great questions, he had no want, when he was speaking off-hand, of quick, _snell_ remark, often witty and full of spirit, and often too unexpected, like lightning--flashing, smiting, and gone. In Church Courts this was very marked. On small ordinary matters, a word from him would settle a long discussion. He would, after lively, easy talk with his next neighbor, set _him_ up to make a speech which was conclusive. But on great questions he must move forward his great gun with much solemnity and effort, partly from his desire to say as much of the truth at once as he could, partly from the natural concentration and rapidity of his mind in action, as distinguished from his slowness when _incubating_, or in the process of thought,--and partly from a sort of self-consciousness--I might almost call it a compound of pride and nervous diffidence--which seldom left him. He desired to say it so that it might never need to be said again or otherwise by himself, or any one else.