"Between the hours of twelve and one, even at the turning of the tide."

Men come from distant parts to admire the tides of Solloway, which race in at flood and retreat at ebb² with a greater speed than a horse can follow. But nowhere are there queerer waters than in our own parish of Caulds at the place called the Sker Bay, where between two horns of land a shallow estuary⁴ receives the stream of the Sker. I never daunder by its shores, and see the waters hurrying like messengers from the great deep, without solemn thoughts and a memory of Scripture⁵ words on the terror of the sea. The vast Atlantic may be fearful in its wrath⁶, but with us it is no clean[Pg 205] open rage, but the deceit of the creature, the unholy ways of quicksands when the waters are gone, and their stealthy return like a thief in the night-watches. But in the times of which I write there were more awful fears than any from the violence of nature. It was before the day of my ministry⁷ in Caulds, for then I was a bit callant in short clothes in my native parish of Lesmahagow; but the worthy⁸ Doctor Chrystal, who had charge of spiritual things, has told me often of the power of Satan and his emissaries in that lonely place. It was the day of warlocks and apparitions¹⁰, now happily driven out by the zeal¹¹ of the General Assembly. Witches pursued their wanchancy calling, bairns were spirited away, young lassies selled their souls to the evil one, and the accuser of the brethren in the shape of a black tyke was seen about cottage-doors in the gloaming. Many and earnest were the prayers of good Doctor Chrystal, but the evil thing, in spite of his wrestling, grew and flourished in his midst. The parish stank¹³ of idolatry,

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