Old David Stuart was the picture of health--a personification ofcontentment. When I knew him, his years must have considerably exceededthreescore; but his good-natured face was as ruddy as health could makeit; his hair, though mingled with grey, was as thick and strong as if hehad been but twenty; his person was still muscular and active; and,moreover, he yet retained, in all their freshness, the feelings of hisyouth, and no small portion of the simplicity of his childhood. I lovedDavid, not only because he was a good man, but because there was a greatdeal of _character_ or _originality_ about him; and though his brow wascheerful, the clouds of sorrow had frequently rested upon it. More thanonce when seated by his parlour fire, and when he had finished his pipe,and his afternoon tumbler stood on the table beside him, I have heardhim give the following account of the ups and downs--the trials, thejoys, and sorrows--which he had encountered in his worldly pilgrimage;and, to preserve the interest of the history, I shall give it in David'sown idiom, and in his own words.