Thomas Galbraith was by birth Thomas Durrant, but had married an heiress by whom he came into possession of Glashruach, and had, according to previous agreement, taken her name. When she died he mourned her loss as well as he could, but was consoled by feeling himself now first master of both position and possession, when the ladder by which he had attained² them was removed. It was not that she had ever given him occasion to feel that marriage and not inheritance was the source of his distinction in the land, but that having a soul as keenly sensitive to small material rights as it was obtuse³ to great spiritual ones, he never felt the property quite his own until his wife was no longer within sight. Had he been a little more sensitive still, he would have felt that the property was then his daughter's, and his only through her; but this he failed to consider.  
Mrs. Galbraith was a gentle sweet woman, who loved her husband, but was capable of loving a greater man better. Had she lived long enough to allow of their opinions confronting in the matter of their child's education, serious differences would probably have arisen between them; as it was, they had never quarrelled except about the name she should bear. The father, having for her sake—so he said to himself—sacrificed his patronymic, was anxious that in order to her retaining some rudimentary trace of himself in the ears of men, she should be overshadowed with his Christian⁴ name, and called Thomasina. But the mother was herein all the mother, and obdurate⁵ for her daughter's future; and, as was right between the two, she had her way, and her child a pretty name. Being more sentimental⁶ than artistic⁷, however, she did not perceive how imperfectly the sweet Italian Ginevra concorded with the strong Scotch⁸ Galbraith. Her father hated the name, therefore invariably abbreviated⁹ it after such fashion as rendered it inoffensive to the most conservative of Scotish ears; and for his own part, at length, never said Ginny, without seeing and hearing and meaning Jenny. As Jenny, indeed, he addressed her in the one or two letters which were all he ever wrote to her; and thus he perpetuated¹⁰ the one matrimonial difference across the grave.
 
Having no natural bent¹¹ to literature, but having in his youth studied for and practised at the Scotish bar, he had brought with him into the country a taste for certain kinds of dry reading, judged pre-eminently respectable, and for its indulgence had brought also a not insufficient¹² store of such provender¹³ as his soul mildly hungered after, in the shape of books bound mostly in yellow-calf—books of law, history, and divinity. What the books of law were, I would not foolhardily add to my many risks of blundering by presuming to recall; the history was mostly Scotish, or connected with Scotish affairs; the theology was entirely¹⁴ of the New England type of corrupted¹⁵ Calvinism, with which in Scotland they saddle the memory of great-souled, hard-hearted Calvin himself. Thoroughly¹⁶ respectable, and a little devout¹⁷, Mr. Galbraith was a good deal more of a Scotchman than a Christian; growth was a doctrine¹⁸ unembodied in his creed²⁰; he turned from everything new, no matter how harmonious²¹ with the old, in freezing disapprobation; he recognized no element in God or nature which could not be reasoned about after the forms of the Scotch philosophy. He would not have said an Episcopalian could not be saved, for at the bar he had known more than one good lawyer of the episcopal party; but to say a Roman Catholic would not necessarily be damned, would to his judgment²² have revealed at once the impending²³ fate of the rash asserter. In religion he regarded everything not only as settled but as understood; but seemed aware of no call in relation to truth, but to bark at anyone who showed the least anxiety to discover it. What truth he held himself, he held as a sack holds corn—not even as a worm holds earth.
 
To his servants and tenants²⁴ he was what he thought just—never condescending²⁵ to talk over a thing with any of the former but the game-keeper, and never making any allowance to the latter for misfortune. In general expression he looked displeased²⁶, but meant to look dignified²⁷. No one had ever seen him wrathful; nor did he care enough for his fellow-mortals ever to be greatly vexed—at least he never manifested vexation otherwise than by a silence that showed more of contempt than suffering.
 
In person, he was very tall and very thin, with a head much too small for his height; a narrow forehead, above which the brown hair looked like a wig²⁸; pale-blue, ill-set eyes, that seemed too large for their sockets²⁹, consequently tumbled about a little, and were never at once brought to focus; a large, but soft-looking nose; a loose-lipped mouth, and very little chin. He always looked as if consciously trying to keep himself together. He wore his shirt-collar unusually high, yet out of it far shot his long neck, notwithstanding the smallness of which, his words always seemed to come from a throat much too big for them. He had greatly the look of a hen, proud of her maternal³⁰ experiences, and silent from conceit³¹ of what she could say if she would. So much better would he have done as an underling than as a ruler—as a journeyman even, than a master, that to know him was almost to disbelieve in the good of what is generally called education. His learning seemed to have taken the wrong fermentation, and turned to folly³² instead of wisdom. But he did not do much harm, for he had a great respect for his respectability. Perhaps if he had been a craftsman³³, he might even have done more harm—making rickety wheelbarrows, asthmatic pumps, ill-fitting window-frames, or boots with a lurking³⁴ divorce in each welt. He had no turn for farming, and therefore let all his land, yet liked to interfere³⁵, and as much as possible kept a personal jurisdiction³⁶.
 
There was one thing, however, which, if it did not throw the laird into a passion—nothing, as I have said, did that—brought him nearer to the outer verge³⁷ of displeasure than any other, and that was, anything whatever to which he could affix³⁸ the name of superstition³⁹. The indignation of better men than the laird with even a confessedly harmless superstition, is sometimes very amusing; and it was a point of Mr. Galbraith's poverty-stricken religion to denounce all superstitions⁴⁰, however diverse in character, with equal severity. To believe in the second sight, for instance, or in any form of life as having the slightest relation to this world, except that of men, that of animals, and that of vegetables, was with him wicked, antagonistic⁴¹ to the Church of Scotland, and inconsistent with her perfect doctrine. The very word ghost would bring upon his face an expression he meant for withering⁴² scorn, and indeed it withered⁴³ his face, rendering⁴⁴ it yet more unpleasant to behold⁴⁵. Coming to the benighted⁴⁶ country, then, with all the gathered wisdom of Edinburgh in his gallinaceous cranium, and what he counted a vast experience of worldly affairs besides, he brought with him also the firm resolve to be the death of superstition, at least upon his own property. He was not only unaware⁴⁷, but incapable⁴⁸ of becoming aware, that he professed⁴⁹ to believe a number of things, any one of which was infinitely⁵⁰ more hostile to the truth of the universe, than all the fancies and fables⁵¹ of a countryside, handed down from grandmother to grandchild. When, therefore, within a year of his settling at Glashruach, there arose a loud talk of the Mains, his best farm, as haunted by presences making all kinds of tumultuous noises, and even throwing utensils⁵² bodily about, he was nearer the borders of a rage, although he kept, as became a gentleman, a calm

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