In a northern town of the east coast, where the earliest recollections of my life go back, there was usually a detachment of a regiment, who were kindly received and welcomed to the society, which in the winter months was very full and very gay.

There was the usual measure of dining, dancing, supping, card-playing, and gossiping, which prevailed in country towns at the time.

The officers were of course an object of much interest to the natives, and their habits were much discussed.

A friend was staying in the family who partook a good deal of the Athenian temperament--viz.
delight in hearing and telling some new thing.

On one occasion she burst forth in great excitement with the intelligence that "Sir Nathaniel Duckinfield, the officer in command of the detachment, had family prayers _every_ morning!" A very near and dear relative of mine, knowing the tendency of the lady to gossip, pulled her up with the exclamation: "How can you repeat such things, Miss Ogilvy?
nothing in the world but the ill-natured stories of Montrose!" The remark was made quite innocently, and unconsciously of the bitter satire it conveyed upon the feeling of the place.