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MEMOIRS OFSIR WEMYSS REID1842-1885
[Illustration: Wemyss Reid]
MEMOIRS OFSIR WEMYSS REID1842-1885
TO
Lady Reid,
THE DEVOTED WIFE OF
MY BROTHER,
THESE PAGES ARE INSCRIBED.
The sense of personal loss occasioned by my brother's death is still sokeen and vivid that if I am to write at all about him—and my duty inthat respect is clear—it must be out of the fulness of my heart. Myearliest recollections of him begin when I was a child and he was abright, self-reliant lad in the home at Newcastle, the characteristics ofwhich are with artless realism described in the opening pages of thisbook. It is the simple truth to say that we grew up in an atmosphere oflove and duty. Our father was a man of studious habit, passing rich inthe possession of a library of dry works on theology which his childrennever read, and among which they searched in vain for the fairy books andstories, or even the poetry, dear to the youthful heart. He was afaithful, rather than a gifted preacher, and I have always thought thathis power—it was real and far-reaching—lay in his modest, unselfishlife, and in that unfailing sympathy which kept him on a perpetual roundof visits to the sick and sorrowful, year in, year out. He had a quietsense of humour, and was never so happy as when he could steal a day offfrom the insistent claims of pastoral work for a ramble in the countrywith his boys.
Always a public-spirited man, and keenly interested in political affairs,he talked to us freely about the events of the time, and made us feelthat the little affairs of our own home and immediate environment couldnever be seen in their true perspective until they were set against thelarger life of the town, and, in a sense, of the nation. When any greatevent occurred he used to tell us all about it; when any great man died,if we did not know the significance of his life and the loss it meant tothe country, it was not his fault. He was a quiet, rather reserved man,terribly in earnest, we thought, and with a touch of sternness about himwhich vanished in later life. He mellowed with the passing years, andlong before old age crept quietly upon him the prevailing note of hischaracter was charity. He had been in early life associated to someextent with the Press, and later had written one or two books, so thatink was in my brother's blood.
Our mother was almost his opposite in character. She was quick, almostimperious in temper, vivacious and witty of speech, full of sense andsensibility, in revolt—I see it now—against the narrow conditions ofher lot, and yet bravely determined to do her best, not merely for herhusband and children, but for the rather austere little community inwhich she was always a central figure. There was a charm about her towhich all sorts and sizes of people surrendered at discretion, and sheloved books more modern and more mundane than the dingy volumes on myfather's shelves. She had received, what was more rare then than now, aliberal education, and, besides modern languages, had at least a moderateacquaintance with the classics. She held herself gallantly in the dim,half-educated society of her husband's chapel, but reserved herfriendships—sometimes with a touch of wilfulness—for those whorepresented whatever there was of sweetness and light in the widersociety of the town. In one respect s