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BITS FROM BLINKBONNY.

The Artists Bit.

BITS FROM BLINKBONNY

OR

BELL O’ THE MANSE

A TALE OF SCOTTISH VILLAGE LIFE BETWEEN

1841 AND 1851

BY

JOHN STRATHESK

With Six Original Illustrations

TORONTO

WILLIAM BRIGGS, 78 & 80 KING ST. EAST

C. W. COATES, Montreal, Que.    S. F. HUESTIS, Halifax, N.S.

——

1885

Entered, according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and eighty-five, by William Briggs, agent for John Tod, St. Leonard’s, Scotland, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture, at Ottawa.

PREFACE.

——◆——

THESE “Bits from Blinkbonny” were grouped together by the Author to beguile the tedium of a protracted period of domestic quarantine. They are not only his first attempt at sustained literary work, but they were commenced without any concerted plan.

Blinkbonny was selected as a pretty name for a Scottish village, but the Author himself cannot fix the precise locality; and all the names he has used are supposititious, excepting those of such public characters as Dr. Duff, Dr. Guthrie, etc.

Owing to his having adopted the autobiographical form, the Author has experienced more difficulty in writing the preface than any other part of the book, as, although most of the incidents are founded on fact, a good deal of imported matter has been required to form a connected narrative. He also knows that in bringing together the varieties of character and incident that an ordinary Scotch village affords, he has passed “from grave to gay, from lively to severe,” in some instances with injudicious abruptness, and that there are other defects for which he needs to apologize; but as even his readers will probably differ as to where these occur, it is not desirable for him to dwell on them.

The Author is not in any way connected with the Free Church of Scotland, and at the outset he had no intention of treating so largely as he has done of the “Disruption” of 1843; if, however, he induces the rising generation to study the past and the present of that great movement, neither they nor he will regret the prominence given to it in this volume.

The illustrations with which the book is embellished are “composition” sketches; but the Author confidently leaves these to introduce themselves.

The idiom of the Scottish language—the dear old Doric—has been to the Author a difficult matter to render, so as to be at once intelligible to ordinary readers and fairly representative of the everyday mother tongue of the common people of Scotland. He hopes that he has succeeded in doing this, as well as in preserving a few of the floating traditions of the passing generation which are so rapidly being swept away by the absorbing whirlpool of these bustling times, and that his readers will follow with kindly interest these homely records of the various subjects he has tried to portray in these “Bits from Blinkbonny.”

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.

The author is delighted to find you so hurriedly called for, that he has only time to express the hope that you will receive as kindly a welcome as your precursor has done.

February 1882.

PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.

The author gladly avails himself of the opportunity you afford him, to express his gratification at the warm reception which Bell and her friends at Blinkbonny have met with on both sides of the Atlantic, as well as to make a few verbal corrections.

“The cleanest corn that e’er was dicht

May ha’e some pyles o’ caff in.”

July 1882.

CONTENTS.

——◆——

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

——◆——

BITS FROM BLINKBONNY.

BITS FROM BLINKBONNY.

——◆——

CHAPTER I.

THE MANSE AND ITS INMATES.

“But how the subject theme may gang,

Let time and chance determine;

Perhaps it may turn out a sang,

Perhaps turn out a sermon.”—Burns.

AN eminent artist, a member of the Royal Scottish Academy, who, although well up in the seventies, and feeling many of the infirmities of advanced age, still continues to enrich the world by as charming landscapes and crisp sea-pieces as he produced in his younger days, was showing me some of his sketches from nature, many of them bearing traces of repeated handling. His face brightened up when a well-thumbed favourite was lighted on amongst the promiscuous contents of the old portfolio. With his eye fixed on the sketch, and his hand moving as if either the pencil or the brush were in it, he told with animation where he made this sketch or took that “bit.”

THE ARTIST AND HIS “BITS.”

“Ah!” said he, “painting is a difficult, a very difficult thing; in fact, it’s just made up of ‘bits’—just bits. A something takes your eye,—a nook, a clump of trees, often a single tree, a boulder, or rocks (grand effects of light and shade on rocks)—ay, even the shape or tinge of a cloud. Well, to work you go, and down with it.—There,” said he, as he lifted what seemed a mere scrawl on a half-sheet of old note-paper, “I took that at the Bank door. I was struck with the effect of the sunlight on water falling over a barrel that a man was filling in the river, and thought it would make a nice picture. I got that bit of paper out of the Bank, took off my hat, laid the paper on it, sketched it off in—oh! less than five minutes, and put it on canvas next day. There’s another. I did that bit on the leaf of my fishing pocket-book at Makumrich, near old Gilston Castle. Now there,” said he, taking up a rough-looking, unfinished sea-scene in oil, “that has been a very useful bit. I was sketching North Berwick Harbour, when all at once I was struck with an effect of light and shade on the sea. I was able to hit it exactly;” and as he said this, he moved his head from side to side and scanned the picture, saying, “That bit has been of great use to me, although I have never made a finished picture of it. The ‘effect,’ the gleam, the tone are as nearly perfect as possible. Ah,” continued he, laying down the sketch, and turning to his easel, on which lay a snow scene,—an old thatched cottage, in my opinion quite finished,—“now there’s lots of bits to work up in that picture.” And sometimes shaking his brush, and sometimes whirling it in a very small circle close to the picture, but never touching it, he said, “There—and there—and perhaps there. Ah! nobody would believe what a labour it is to make a good picture, with all the bits and bits!”

I am but an aspirant in literature, and would never presume to compare myself with the veteran artist, or think that I could ever arrange my bits of village gossip and incident with the artistic skill which has earned for him the order of merit that he has so honourably won and so worthily wears, but I confess to a desire to present some of the bits of the everyday social life of Blinkbonny in such a form as to give my readers an idea of its lights and shadows.

Blinkbonny is more of a village than a town, although it is generally spoken of by the outside world as a town, owing to its having its small weekly market and occasional fairs. It lies fully thirty miles inland from Edinburgh, and is the centre of a good agricultural district, with a background of moorland and hills. My father was a merchant in it,—a very general merchant, as he dealt in grain, wool, seeds, groceries, cloth, hardware, and various other commodities. This may seem a strange mixture in these days of the division of labour and subdivision of trades, but such dealers were not uncommon fifty years ago, and they were frequently men of considerable capital and influence. My elder and only brother was a partner with my father in the business; and as I had early expressed a desire to be a minister, I was sent to Edinburgh to prosecute my studies in that direction, and had completed my fourth session at college, when the death of my brother rendered it necessary that I should do all in my power to supply his place.

THE FOLKS AT GREENKNOWE.

I had been but a few months at home, when my father, whose health had been failing for some years, became a confirmed invalid. My brother’s death had not only affected his spirits, but injured his health, and within little more than a year after this heavy trial the old man was laid beside his wife and eldest son in the churchyard of Blinkbonny. My sisters, all of them older than myself, were married, excepting Maggie; and about a year after my father’s death Maggie became Mrs. M^cLauchlan, so that I was left a very young inmate of Bachelor Hall. When I had time to feel lonely I did so, but the demands of business kept me thoroughly employed; and although I joined habitually in the socialities of the neighbourhood, I did not seriously think of getting married until I was called on to act as bridegroom’s man to my schoolfellow and college companion, John M^cNab, now the Reverend John M^cNab. He married Mary Stewart of Greenknowe, the daughter of a small proprietor on the outskirts of our village. Her sister Agnes was bridesmaid, and we were necessarily brought a good deal into one another’s society. I had often met her before, and liked her in a general way, but at her sister’s marriage I came fully under the influence of her charms. There was something—well, something—I cannot describe it by any other word than just “something”—that fairly possessed me. For days afterwards she was in my head, in my dreams, in my heart. I will not describe our courtship; it was neither long nor romantic. I wooed and won her, got Mrs. Stewart’s consent, and on New Year’s Day 1841 we fixed that our marriage should take place in the last week of January.

Mrs. Stewart felt the cold weather severely, and could not venture to call at the manse to request Mr. Barrie, our worthy parish minister, to perform the ceremony. She asked Agnes to go in her stead, but Agnes could not muster courage to do so—she even felt too shy to write to Mr. Barrie; so, although it was not exactly according to the strict rules of etiquette I promised to call on Mr. Barrie next day, and to arrange the matter with him.

Blinkbonny. (Page 6).

The manse stood on the top of a piece of slightly rising ground, about a quarter of a mile to the south-west of the village. The situation was a pleasant one. It commanded on three sides extensive views of a well-cultivated country, backed by high and picturesque hills; the village bounded the view on the north-east. Near the manse stood the neat church, surrounded by the churchyard. There were also a park of about four acres, a garden covering nearly an acre, and some outhouses, the whole enclosed by a compact wall.

THE INTERRUPTED CALL.

I had been on intimate terms with all the inmates of the manse, from Bell, the only and worthy servant, upwards; but my errand made me feel rather confused, and instead of the usual off-hand remark to Bell, varying from, “Weel, Bell, hoo’s a’ wi’ ye?” to comments on the weather or crops, as suited the season, I bluntly asked if Mr. Barrie was engaged. There was a flavour of tartness in Bell’s manner as she replied, “Mr. Barrie’s aye thrang, but he’s aye ready to see onybody that wants him partic’larly. I’ll speir at him if he’s engaged,” and she disappeared. Mr. Barrie himself came to the door, shook hands with me with more than usual heartiness, put a special emphasis on the happy in wishing me “a happy New Year,” gave my hand a sort of squeeze, took a long look at me, and with a smirk on his face said, “Come in, Mr. Martin, come in.” He had not called me “Mr.” before, but only plain Robert; and from the blithe way in which he showed me into the “study,” I saw that he knew my position, if not my errand.

Our conversation was at first general, and on my side jerky. I did not follow up intelligently the subjects he introduced, but was either silent or rambling on quite irrelevant topics. He made a long pause, doubtless to induce me to lead, as he evidently saw I was not able to follow. The not uncommon weakness of Scotchmen, of trying to conceal strong emotions even on subjects on which they feel very keenly, was working in me. I was heart-glad at the prospect of my marriage, and well I might; but I wished to appear very cool, so, as if merely beginning another subject, I said in a conversational way, “I was once thinking of getting married.” Scarcely had I finished the sentence, when Bell announced that Sir John M^cLelland would like to speak to Mr. Barrie when he was disengaged. Knowing that Sir John was the largest landowner in the parish, and the patron of the church, and that he was taking an active part in a church extension scheme in which Mr. Barrie was deeply interested, I at once left the “study,” stating that I would call to-morrow night, and made for Greenknowe, where I was bantered by both ladies, but especially by Mrs. Stewart, when I told about “once thinking of getting married.”

Laying the emphasis first on the once, then on the thinking, then on both, she said, “Is that all the length you are? You should think twice—second thoughts are often best. Agnes, if you had either called or written as I wished, we could have had the invitations out to-day; but perhaps Robert will take the second thought to-night, and until he quite makes up his mind we must wait with patience.”

THE NEXT VISIT TO THE MANSE.

Next night found me at the manse door, which Bell “answered.” I was very frank, but Bell had barely digested last night’s slight, and before I had finished my salutation to her she said dryly, “It’ll be the minister ye want the nicht again?” and showed me into the study. Mr. Barrie, after expressing regret at the sudden breaking up of our last night’s interview, asked me if the day had been fixed. I told him that we would prefer the last Tuesday of January, if that date suited him. He at once said, “I’ll make it suit me;” and after noting it in a memorandum book, he proceeded, although I had not mentioned the name of my future wife, to speak very nicely of the good folks at Greenknowe; of the late Mr. Stewart, who had been one of his elders, and from whom, in the earlier years of his ministry, he had received much useful counsel; of Mrs. Stewart’s almost motherly kindness ever since he came to the parish; of his great esteem for Miss Stewart (my Agnes), and of her devotion to her father, especially in his long and last illness. He also spoke of my late father and brother as excellent, very excellent men, said some things about myself which I will not repeat, and taking me by the hand, said, “Humanly speaking, your marriage promises to be in every respect a happy event for all concerned. May God bless you both, and make you blessings to one another, to all your circle, to the Church, and to the world.”

I thanked him warmly, and added that I might trouble him by asking his advice on some matters, and possibly Mrs. Barrie’s; and was proceeding to bid him good-night, when he said, “Robert, this is an occasion, I may say a great occasion, and you must take an egg with us. I told Mrs. Barrie last night that you were ‘once thinking of getting married.’ She will be delighted to learn that your second thought has got the length of fixing the day. And, whilst I am in the habit of giving all young bridegrooms a few quiet hints, I would like you to have a chat with both of us. You will find Mrs. Barrie’s counsel sound and practical, so we’ll join her in the parlour;” and suiting the action to the word, he lifted the lamp, and asking me to follow him, made for the snug parlour, where he announced me as “a subject of compound interest now, not simple as before.”

Mrs. Barrie was carefully darning a stocking, which she laid on the table as I entered, and shaking my hand with great heartiness, she said, “I need hardly wish you a happy new year, Mr. Martin. You are as sure to be happy as anybody can be sure of happiness in this world. I hope you consider yourself a very lucky man?”

I made as nice a reply as I could. Mrs. Barrie repeated her husband’s “You must take an egg with us;” and laying the half-darned stocking into her work-basket on the back table, she looked into a cradle that stood in the cosiest corner of the room, and seeing that all was right there, she said, “I must see that the other little folks are happit before I sit down,” and left the room. But before I tell of the evening’s quiet enjoyment in the manse parlour, I will say something about the inmates of the manse itself.

THE INMATES OF THE MANSE.

Mr. Barrie was ordained as minister of Blinkbonny in 1830, and early in 1831 he brought his young wife, till then Mary Gordon, home to the manse. He was a son of the manse, a son of the minimum stipend; when half through his preparatory studies he became a son of the Widows’ Fund. Mrs. Barrie’s parents had been in a very comfortable worldly position for the first sixteen years of her life, but through circumstances over which they had no control, and to which she never referred, their means had been greatly reduced. Her father died when she was eighteen years of age; her mother survived her father about four years. She was thus an orphan at twenty-two. She was twenty-five years of age when she was married, Mr. Barrie being her senior by fully one year; and whilst she brought to the manse “a good providing,” she brought little money or “tocher,” as a bride’s marriage portion is called in Scotland. The income of the minister of Blinkbonny, or, to use the church phrase, the “stipend,” was paid partly in money and partly in grain, and averaged about £160 yearly. The furnishing of the manse and the minister’s library had required and received careful consideration. Even the providing of live stock for the park, to commence with, involved an outlay that in the circumstances was considerable; but by Bell’s indefatigable industry and management, the cow, the hens, the garden, and even the pig became such important sources of supply in the household economy, that any description of the inmates of the manse would be utterly incomplete which did not make honourable mention of worthy Bell.

Bell had come with Mrs. Barrie as her first servant, and had grown up as, if not into, a part of the family. She was fully the middle height, muscular, not stout but well-conditioned, had a good complexion, a “weel-faured” face, keen, deep-set, dark eyes; and altogether she was a comely woman. I believe her full name was Isabella Cameron, but she was only known as Bell, occasionally Mr. Barrie’s Bell; so much so that when a letter came to the manse, addressed “Miss Cameron,” both Mr. and Mrs. Barrie had laid it aside, expecting that some stranger would call for it, and were instructing Bell to return it to the post office in the evening, should no Miss Cameron cast up, when Bell said, “My name’s Cameron; it’ll maybe be for me.” It was, much to Mrs. Barrie’s embarrassment, and told of the death of Bell’s aunt. Bell had few relations,—none that seemed to care for her, and consequently none that she kept up intimacy with.

BELL OF THE MANSE.

She was a year older than Mrs. Barrie. Her first “place” had been in a small farmhouse, where the manners were very primitive, and the work was very constant. One of her questions shortly after coming to the manse was, “Does Mr. Barrie aye take his dinner with his coat on?” a thing she had not seen before. Mrs. Barrie had a little difficulty in getting her to understand the proprieties, but none in getting her to do exactly as she was told. Bell felt nothing a bother, took pleasantly any explanation given as to her mistakes, laughed at them when pointed out, and with a cheerful “I’ll mind that,” thanked Mrs. Barrie. It took her some time to learn the distinctive tones of the bells, the parlour, dining-room, front door, etc.; and for the first week or two, when a bell was rung, she ran to the nearest room and tried it, then to another, sometimes to the disturbance of the folks inside; but she soon came to know them.

It was a sight to see Bell unbuckle her gown,—which when at work she gathered round her, and fastened in some wonderfully fast-loose way,—shake herself, and stalk off in response, especially to the front door, to any ring that seemed peremptory.

Sir John M^cLelland was making his first call after the marriage. He handed Bell his card, politely asking at the same time if Mr. and Mrs. Barrie were at home. Bell looked at the card, but it was in German text, and therefore unintelligible. She looked at Sir John, but that did not help her; she then turned on her heel,—the swiftest, cleverest motion of the kind that could be imagined,—walked briskly to Mrs. Barrie, and said, “There’s a man at the door, a weel-put-on man, and he asked for you; an’ he gied me a ticket, an’ he’s there yet.”

Mrs. Barrie soon put such mistakes right. She found Bell an apt scholar, scrupulously clean, sterlingly honest, and always busy, though not fussy. At first Bell was most at home among the hens, cows, pigs, and in the garden, but she soon became well up in all household work. Even the addition of the children one by one never seemed to tax Bell’s powers heavily. The first two, James and Mary, were healthy, and in Bell’s homely phrase, “never looked behind them;” but the third, “Wee Nellie,” had been from her birth “a feeble, delicate little thing.” When she was about three years old, scarlet fever attacked the children, beginning with Lewis, the baby. His was a mild case; so were those of James and Mary, but Nellie’s was a severe one. Her pulse ran very high, her little body was covered with the bright scarlet “rash,” her throat sorely affected, her breathing laboured and requiring more effort than the weak constitution could spare. Mrs. Barrie and Bell were unwearied in their efforts to relieve the poor sufferer, and gently was she passed from knee to knee in her restless moods, gently was she laid down again, and coaxed and humoured and waited on with unspeakably tender care.

BELL AND WEE NELLIE.

Between Bell and Nellie there had been a special intimacy. She had called herself “Bell’s bairn;” and as her age and health did not admit of her joining the other children at play, she was seldom out of the kitchen, except when Bell wrapped her cosily in a plaid, and carried her about the parks or garden, where Bell diverted herself quite as much as the “wee whitefaced girlie,” by humouring her childish whims, and joining in, if not provoking, her wondering interest. And ever and anon, as Nellie expressed delight at what Bell said, or did, or pulled, or showed, Bell would press her warmly to her breast, and croon over words of endearment about her “wee croodlin’ doo,” “her ain darling Nellie,” “she was Bell’s bairn,” and tell her that when she was big she would help Bell to milk “Daisy,” and feed the hens. The cosiest corner in the kitchen was Nellie’s “housie.” There she would play for hours, sometimes sitting on her little stool, and chatting with Bell “like an auld body;” sometimes fondling her black-and-white kitten Tibby; sometimes putting to sleep her favourite doll “Black Tam,” who, although he had neither arms nor legs, and his trunk had by long wear lost the black paint, and appeared as bare timber well time-soiled, still retained on his head, which had been gouged out to imitate the woolly hair of the negro, crescent-shaped indents of his original blackness, and his lips were flecked with streaks of their primitive crimson; sometimes playing with broken bits of china, drawing Bell’s attention to those with gold on them as “Nellie’s pennies.” And not infrequently did Bell take the wee lassie into her kindly lap, and press her to her kindly bosom, and sing, and sigh as she sung, her favourite if not only song of the “Bonnie, bonnie banks of Benlomond.”

“WEARIN’ AWA’.”

It need hardly be recorded that Bell’s agony at Nellie’s illness was only equalled by that of Mrs. Barrie,—possibly by that of Mr. Barrie, but only possibly. She had been struck with the hectic flush which glowed on Nellie’s face, and saw that the fever was sore on her; but she hoped against hope, until on the seventh day of the illness a spasmodic movement of the weak body, and a hazy gleam of the weary eye, revealed to Bell that Nellie’s recovery was hopeless. The thought of losing her came so suddenly on Bell, that she nearly broke down in the room; but restraining herself as her eye rested on Mrs. Barrie’s calm motherly face, intent on anticipating and ministering to the wants of the sufferer, Bell whispered that she would “see if the bairns were all right, and be back immediately,” and left the room. She walked noiselessly through the lobby, at the darkest corner of it gave two or three great “gulps,” and uttered a bitter “Oh! dear, dear.” This was what nature demanded; this at least, more if she could have got it; but this little snatch relieved her pent-up heart, and braced her for further service. After seeing that the other children were right, she glided into the sick-room, from which Mr. Barrie, with a remark or rather a sigh about “too many breaths,” emerged as she entered. She took the fever-tossed child gently out of Mrs. Barrie’s wearied arms, and did her best to relieve the difficulty of breathing, so harassing to the watchers, and so sore on the patient. Gradually the fitful struggles became less violent; Nellie got quieter, softer, powerless. She half opened her eyes, then closed them slowly, and said in a faint voice, with a long eerie tone, “Bell.” Bell, half choking with grief, bent over her and kept saying, “Yes, ye’re Bell’s bairn, ye’re Bell’s ain bairn;” but observing her weary, weary face and increasing softness, she looked wistfully at the invalid, then sympathizingly at Mrs. Barrie, and, rising softly, laid the wee lamb on Mrs. Barrie’s lap, slipped noiselessly to Mr. Barrie’s study, and opening the door very slightly, said, “Please, sir, come ben, or the angels will be before you!” She got another gulp as she waited to follow him into the sick-room, and that helped her greatly. The little darling recognised “papa,”—smiled as she lisped his name,—smiled if possible more sweetly as she heard her mother’s voice, in quivering accents, saying, “My ain wee wee Nellie!” and sighed audibly, “Mamma’s wee-wee,”—she then closed her eyes, and in the act of raising her tiny hand to her throat, it fell powerless, and Wee Nellie was Wee Nellie no more, or rather, as Bell said, Wee Nellie for ever.

“THE LAND O’ THE LEAL.”

Her delicate health and consequent helplessness, as also her gentleness, had endeared her to Mr. Barrie. When all was over, he muttered, “She was a pleasant child, lovely and beautiful in her life;” and added in a firmer voice, “It is well with the child, it is well.” Bell lifted the little body from its mother’s lap, and laid it gently on the bed. Her tears were streaming, but she had got the first bitter pang over, and putting her arm on, or rather round, Mrs. Barrie’s shoulder, she said, “Come away, mem, for a little; I’ll put all right.” Mrs. Barrie obeyed mechanically, and was persuaded by Bell to lie down in bed. There wearied nature asserted her prerogative, and she slept soundly for a considerable time. When she returned to the sick-room, all traces of illness, in the shape of couches, baths, phials, and confusion, were away; the old crumb-cloth which had been put down to preserve the carpet was exchanged for a clean linen drugget; the fire was out, the fire-place filled with fir-tops; the window was open, and the blind drawn down; here and there about the room were little muslin bags filled with lavender-seed; and on the mantelpiece, which, when she left, was covered with tumblers and cans and glasses of medical stuff, overlapped with paper, or having spoons in them to the hazard of their balance, stood three tumblers filled with bunches of lavender; and on the bed lay all that remained of Nellie, “dressed and laid out,” her little body making all the more appearance that the snow-white bedcover was tightly laid over it. On her face lay a muslin handkerchief, kept down by a bag of lavender on either side.

As Mrs. Barrie approached the bed, Bell walked to the other side of it, and slowly folded down the face-cloth. All traces of suffering and weariness had vanished; the face was that of a child smiling in sleep.

“Bell,” said Mrs. Barrie, “she’s beautiful” (she had never said that before of her or of any of her children), “beautiful,—and she’s home. Of such is the kingdom of Heaven.” Bell tried to speak. She got the length of faltering out, “For ever with the Lord,” when Mrs. Barrie stooped down to kiss her “lost lamb.” Bell rather quickly folded the face-cloth over the mouth, saying, “On the cheek or the broo, mem, no’ on the mooth.” Although Mrs. Barrie’s frame shook as her lips touched the cold brow, she pressed them on it lingeringly, and as she raised herself she said, “I will go to her, she cannot return to me.” Then, looking round the room, she said, “Bell, O Bell! I can never repay, and I will never forget, your kindness at this time.” She would have said more, but Bell broke down, and Mrs. Barrie broke down, and both were considerably better when the pent-up flood of sorrow found relief.

In the churchyard of Blinkbonny stands a little marble slab, only a few inches above the ground bearing the following inscription:—

HELEN BARRIE

DIED 18TH MAY 1838, AGED 3 YEARS.

——

WITH CHRIST ... FAR BETTER.

“THE BUTTERFLY ON A GRAVE.”

The spot had no more constant visitor than Bell. The flowers that in their seasons grew round it were planted by her hand, and tended by her with constant care; the only difference being that in weeding or trimming it there was not the quick, bustling energy which she exercised in the garden, but a reverent slowness unusual for her. She never put her foot on the sod under which Nellie lay; and although for the first few visits she sighed mournfully as she read the inscription (and she read it aloud to herself at every visit), it was not long before her face lightened as she uttered the last two words, and she would add in a cheerful confirmatory tone, as if Nellie herself had repeated the epitaph, “Yes, Nellie; yes, Bell’s bairn, far better; far, far better.”

“A butterfly bask’d on a baby’s grave,

Where a lily had chanced to grow;

‘Why art thou here with thy gaudy dye,

When she of the blue and sparkling eye

Must sleep in the churchyard low?’

Then it lightly soared through the sunny air,

And spoke from its shining track:

‘I was a worm till I won my wings,

And she whom thou mourn’st, like a seraph sings;

Wouldst thou call the blessed one back?’”

Mrs. Sigourney.

CHAPTER II.

A QUIET EVENING AT THE MANSE.

“Thrift made them easy for the coming day,

Religion took the fear of death away;

A cheerful spirit still ensured content,

And love smiled round them wheresoe’er they went.”

Crabbe.

I NEED hardly tell that between Mrs. Barrie and Bell the relationship of mistress and servant was more than cordial, more than intimate,—I can find no better word to express it than perfect. To say that Bell knew her place is a term much too bald; she filled it, fulfilled it, full-filled it. She was devoted to the family’s interest; her heart and mind were in her work; she had a clear head, a strong arm, a blithe happy manner, and an uncommonly large stock of common sense.

BELL’S SLIDING SCALE.

She had a ready “knack” of dividing the articles under her care, by a sliding scale of her own, so as to put all to the best use: she laid aside some for the dining-room on “company” days, and even at a sudden call she was seldom found unprepared; some for the parlour, to suit old and young (for there was no formal nursery in the manse,—Bell’s room, “off” the kitchen, was best entitled to the name, although competing claims might have been put forward by the kitchen itself, the parlour, and even the study); some for the kitchen, but that had not a high place in her scale; a good deal for the poor,—plain, handy, and given in good time and with discernment. Of one thing she was very careful, and that was, that if any food seemed likely to spoil, it was given away before it went wrong; if any clothing, it was given clean, and although often well patched, it was fit for immediate use. There was a corner in the kitchen pantry with a stock of comforts, and even luxuries, for cases of sickness, old age, or special need. The dumb animals were studied with thoughtful care, and they repaid it well. Everything that could be used was used regularly and methodically.

THE BUSY BEE.

Bell’s dress varied with her work. In the morning she “sorted” the live stock, clad in what an artist would have called a grotesque or picturesque costume, according to the season. In winter her upper garment was an old overcoat of Mr. Barrie’s—a “Spencer;” in summer it was a loose-fitting jacket of striped cotton, lilac and white; her linsey-woolsey petticoat was of the right length for such work, and all were shaken or brushed or beaten daily. She put on her cotton “morning wrapper,” of blue with small white spots, just before she “set” the breakfast, and got “redd up” for the day in time to serve up the dinner. While she had her set times for her regular work, and “turned her hand” smartly to anything more pressing, she observed no “Factory Act” restrictions as to her hours of labour. Very early in the morning the clank of Bell’s “pattens”[1] was heard as she attended to her home farm, and till far on in the evening she was working away anxiously and cheerfully. Her rest was a change of work on week-days. On the Sabbath afternoon she took what seemed likest a rest, viz. a walk round the whole premises, leisurely, observant, inquisitive, noticing everything, and mentally noting a good deal for next week’s attention; varied by an occasional “saunter” into the gardens of the neighbours for purposes of observation, comparison, insight, or exchange.

[1] Pattens were a primitive form of what are now known as overshoes, although “undershoe” defines the patten more correctly. The upper part was made of wood, like the frame of an ice-skate, but broader,—not unlike the frame of an oval horse-brush; and it was put on by pushing the foot firmly into overstraps made of leather or “girth cloth,” in the same way as a horse-brush is fixed on a groom’s hand. The under part was an oval-shaped ring of thin iron, measuring about six inches long, four inches broad, and one inch deep. There being no fastening at the back, the heel of the wearer’s shoe made a “slip-shod” noise on the wooden sole, which, added to the clanking of the iron soles, especially on any pavement or causeway, produced a double-beat “clatterin’ clatter.” To the inexperienced they were as difficult to walk with as skates are; they kept the foot about two inches from the ground, and were taken off before entering the house by merely withdrawing the foot. They not only kept the feet dry, but a “clean hoose.”

Her respect for Mr. and Mrs. Barrie was profound: they were the handsomest couple in the parish, and many parishes might have been gone over before a more comely, gentle, ladylike, person than Mrs. Barrie could be met with. Bell said, “They were, if that was possible, better than they were bonnie;” and when Mrs. Barrie told Bell, as she often did, to rest and take things more leisurely, Bell would say, “I like to work, mem, I like it; I canna be idle.” Mrs. Barrie’s remonstrances were firmer on extra occasions, such as a “heavy washing,” but Bell’s answer was, “It was naething, naething at a’; and didna we get a grand day for drying the claes?”—or at the “Spring cleanin’,” when her answer was, “It’s best to get all the confusion past and by wi’t. It was a nice thing a fresh, clean hoose;—’deed, mem, it astonishes me to see hoo much cleanin’ every place needs, although it’s no very bad like before you begin.”

I may be dwelling too long on Bell, and it is not at all unlikely that she may become the heroine of my story, or rather the central figure round which the “bits” are grouped. If so, I could not wish a better, although Bell herself had no idea that she was such a good servant, or that she did more than her bare duty; she oftener felt she had not done as well as she wished. She was far too sensible and busy a woman to think much about herself; and should she read this, she would be the first to say “she wished she had done better,—he hasna tell’d my fau’ts.” Worthy, kindly, honest Bell!

“GIVEN TO HOSPITALITY.”

Mrs. Barrie’s housekeeping was the admiration, to many it was the miracle, of the parish and district. She was a good manager, and with such a helpmate as Bell, she made her income do wonders. To the poor, the manse was always open for judicious help; the hospitality of the dining-room and parlour was substantial and becoming. This was all the more astonishing from the fact that Mrs. Barrie was “such a delightful creature,” “such a charming person,” “quite a lady,” “a model minister’s wife,” “so accomplished,” “so amiable,” “so frank,” “so nice,” “so attractive” (these are actual epithets used by her friends), that the number of visitors, many of whom were easily persuaded to become guests, was larger than was desirable, and the consequent calls on the larder and pantry were heavy. Indeed, this was a subject of frequent remark among those who enjoyed the hospitality of the manse, all wondering how ever she could manage, and many “beseeching” Mrs. Barrie not to trouble herself about them, as they only wished a quiet chat, although the length of many of their visits made them more like visitations; Mrs. A. and Mrs. B. suggesting that Mrs. C. and Mrs. D. might be more considerate, whilst Mrs. C. and Mrs. D. were surprised at the audacious manner in which Mrs. A. and Mrs. B. thrust themselves on Mr. and Mrs. Barrie. It was really difficult to withstand the attractions of the manse, and Mr. and Mrs. Barrie, more particularly Mrs. Barrie, was made a social martyr because she was so good, and kind, and true.

It never occurred to Mrs. Barrie that her good nature and good housekeeping were inconsiderately drawn upon by many who should have known better. She liked to see, and to contribute to, the enjoyment of others, preferred being active to being passive in this matter, and was “given to hospitality” from the genuine sweetness of her nature; and while the sigh of weariness often escaped her lips at the close of some of the nice “sociables,” which had been prolonged so as to interfere with domestic and other duties, she never murmured; although she and Bell had often to encroach on the hours of rest or sleep in order to keep everything forward, and as they would like it.

Mr. Barrie’s broadcloth was invariably fresh-looking, and his linen faultless. Mrs. Barrie was at all times becomingly dressed, and in the afternoons quite “the lady, aye sae genty.” The boys and girls were comfortably and neatly clad every day, specially so on Sabbath days, and theirs was a happy home.

Before I began to describe the inmates of the manse, I mentioned that Mrs. Barrie said, on leaving the parlour, she was going to see if the “bairns were happit.” She seldom spoke Scotch, but when she did, it was with quaint emphasis and special sweetness. There was no real need for Mrs. Barrie having any anxiety on this subject of “happing,” as Bell was always on the alert; but Mrs. Barrie’s motherly heart could not rest until she had seen, and kissed in their beds, her “wee croodlin’ doos.” She went first to see Bell about the supper; then to Bell’s room, where Mary and Flora were fast asleep; then to her own room, where Lewis was sleeping soundly, but James wide awake, scheming in his little head whether he could not make a pair of skates, and wishing that Bell would come up, as her “pattens” seemed the likeliest raw material to make them of, and he had seen an old pair in the byre. Mrs. Barrie heard his story, and said they would never do; but that Mr. Martin was in the parlour, and she would ask him the price of a pair, if he would sleep like a good boy; and kissing both, and “tucking” them in, she returned to the parlour.

BE “JUDEECIOUS.”

During her absence, Mr. Barrie spoke to me in quite a fatherly way. He knew that I had a good business and fair prospects, but that, since my father’s death, I had bought a small property called Knowe Park adjoining the village, and that this had absorbed my available means to such an extent as to render it a little difficult for me to carry on business comfortably to the extent that my father had done. After stating that he thought I was taking a wise step in getting married, he said he found it generally the case, although it sounded like a contradiction, that a married house was more cheaply and much better kept than a bachelor’s; and that he was in the custom of drawing the attention of folks who were about to get married to the subject of Life Assurance, or, if working men, to Benefit Societies, and to the necessity of economy and prudence in money matters. “But,” added he, “you know these things better than I do, and I know you will act judeeciously,” with a considerable emphasis on the ee. And as he referred to the various relationships of social life, he closed each section (for his advices unconsciously ran into “heads and particulars,” like his sermons), with, in short, “Be judeecious;” and so clearly did he illustrate the inseparable connection between wisdom and success or happiness in everything he spoke of, that his advice seemed then, and seems yet, summed up in, “Be judeecious.” He will excuse me for telling here, that in the parish he was not unfrequently spoken of as “Judeecious;” and after the lapse of fully forty years, he is still occasionally styled, “Worthy old Judeecious,” by some elderly warm friends, when recalling the sunny memories of former days, although in general conversation he is now spoken of as Dr. Barrie.

He related with considerable glee a saying of an old minister, who, in speaking of money matters, used to maintain that there were only three ways in which a minister could make money—patrimony, matrimony, or parsimony. He also told the story, which is long ago threadbare, of the old merchant, who, when asked why his son had not done so well in business as he had, replied, “That’s easily explained: we old folks began with a little house and a plain table, with porridge and a herring, and got up to tea and a ‘chuckie’ (chicken); but the young folks began with a braw house, and tea and chuckies and silks, and never buckled up their sleeves to work.” When Mrs. Barrie joined us, supper was already on the table. After glancing into the cradle, to see if all was right with “Gordie,” or Gordon Lennox, as his full name was, she said, “Come away, gentlemen,” and seating herself at the head of the table, did the honours in a graceful and homely way.

“BAIRNS WILL BE BAIRNS.”

Bell had brought in the little black kettle, and it kept singing by the fireside. When the simple meal was over, Mr. Barrie and I made a “tumbler” of toddy each, a rare thing for him, but he said it was “New Year time,” and an “occasion;” and my health was drunk, and that of Agnes, in which Mrs. Barrie joined, a very rare thing for her; and Mr. Barrie had just said, “Now, my dear, you must give Mr. Martin the benefit of a little of your experience,” when the door-handle was slowly turned, evidently by a less firm hand than Bell’s, and a little head and part of a little white nightgown, appeared at the half-opened door, and a voice was heard timidly saying, “Mamma,” followed by Bell’s voice, which, with a mixture of astonishment and anxiety in its tone, was heard saying, “James—here—at this time o’ nicht! whatever’s the matter wi’ ye, laddie?” All in the room said, “James!” but before Mrs. Barrie had time to apologize, which she was proceeding to do to James for forgetting the skates, although the strict bargain was that she would speak to me if he slept like a good boy, he threw light on the interruption, greatly to Bell’s relief, by saying, “Mamma, have you spoken to Mr. Martin about the skates?”

James’ single sentence told the whole story better than any other words could have done it, and I told him to come to see me to-morrow, and I would find him a pair. Mr. Barrie’s “Oh, Mr. Martin, you—” and Mrs. Barrie’s “My dear boy, you must—” and Bell’s “Skates! you’ll break your legs, or drown—” were all interrupted, and all three silenced by James’s very pronounced “Oh, thank you, Mr. Martin, thank you very much;” and “Good night, James,” had come from all round the supper table, and Bell had got him in hand to lead him away, and the door was all but closed, when it opened again. There seemed a struggle going on between James and Bell before he reappeared, this time at full length, with his one arm distended towards the lobby, his feet planted and his body inclined forwards, as if in resistance to an outward pull, and his other arm clenching firmly the upper bead of the dado of the parlour.

“Oh, Mr. Martin, please, sir, when will I come to-morrow?” said the boy eagerly.

“Nine o’clock, James,” said I, “or any time after that.”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” said he; and looking at Mrs. Barrie, said, “May I go, mamma?”

“We’ll see to-morrow,” replied Mrs. Barrie; “do go to bed like a good boy.”

This was too indefinite for James. “But please, mamma, may I go?” pleaded the boy with difficulty, for Bell was pulling him strongly outwards.

CAUGHT TRIPPING.

“Yes,” came from Mr. Barrie, fettered by some conditions about not going on the “Loch” without getting mamma’s permission, which James did not hear. Bell’s strength had mastered his, and the door was closed. They went up-stairs, Bell enlarging on broken legs and drowning, James on trying to learn on the “pattens;” and Bell had to threaten to go down to me, and tell me not to give him them, and had actually feigned a determined start on that errand, when James said, “Oh, don’t, Bell; I’ll be a good boy, and sleep,” which he did.

James being thus pleasantly disposed of, Mrs. Barrie began her record of experiences, which proved so interesting, that before she had gone on long, I so far forgot myself as to say, “Oh! how I wish Agnes had been here!” Mrs. Barrie caught me at once, and said with a merry smile, “Can you not do with us for an hour? or rather, why did you not bring her with you?”—then went on in a homely way with her useful hints and good advice, illustrating these by incidents that had occurred in her household.

A “for instance,” or “I remember on one occasion,” was followed by an account of a sudden call on her larder,—or a valuable dress torn, or soiled, or spoiled,—or a breakage,—or an unexpectedly heavy tradesman’s account,—or something that was much needed and apparently beyond her power and purse, yet eventually procured by her ingenuity and patience,—or her little plans to make Mr. Barrie’s coat into a suit for James and possibly a vest for Lewie. And as her family increased, her scheming, and shaping, and sewing, and turning of garments to keep them “cosy,” were prettily told, and, if I may use such a term, romantic in their very simplicity. I cannot forget the pathos with which she told of a serious and alarming illness caught by Mr. Barrie the week after Nellie’s death, at a funeral in a distant part of the parish, but doubtless aggravated by the disturbed state of his mind and the disorganized state of his frame. For, good man as he was, and perfectly resigned to God’s will, he felt keenly the blank in the home,—for “a little chair was empty there;” and although I could not say he murmured, I know that he greatly missed “the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still” (Tennyson).

MR. BARRIE’S ILLNESS.

“He was very ill,” said she; “alarmingly ill,—so ill that I suggested to Dr. Stevenson, or rather it struck the doctor and myself at the same moment, that it would be desirable to call in an Edinburgh consulting physician. I confess that the fee was a serious consideration, as I knew that it would prevent my getting the new wincey dresses for myself and the girls that I was saving up for; although this only floated through my mind in its excited state, and required no effort to cast off. The professor came, and went into the case minutely. Never can I forget the kindly way in which he said that our family doctor had treated the case exactly as he himself would have done,—that Mr. Barrie was a splendid patient, self-possessed, scrupulously obedient to the doctor’s orders, a model of passive subjection to the minutiæ of medical requirements; and that his good constitution, which had been conserved by his regular and correct life, rendered the case a hopeful one, still one requiring every attention and care. He said something about myself in that matter that I will not repeat. All I said was, I had a servant worth her weight in gold,—Bell.”

“That’s beyond doubt,” said Mr. Barrie and I simultaneously. Mrs. Barrie went on:

“He also said that he had successfully treated similar cases on a method of his own, and that the surroundings of Mr. Barrie’s case were such as to make him most anxious to have it treated with scrupulous attention to the most minute details of this new system,—that he would write these out carefully, and be in correspondence with Dr. Stevenson, and come out again if necessary. I asked his fee; he said not to mind at present, and when I pressed him he said he would write me. He was very particular in writing specific directions; and Dr. Stevenson more fully explained these, so that we were able to carry them out to the letter. Three days after his visit the carrier brought a small hamper of medicines and cordials from the professor, with full instructions as to their use, and a letter to myself”—here she sobbed. Tears had frequently trembled in her eyes as she told the story of the illness, but they trickled down as she spoke of the letter.

“THE GOOD SAMARITAN.”

Drying her tears, however, she proceeded: “In the letter he expressed his gratitude at having it in his power to minister ‘to the necessities of saints,’ his delight at having his method of treatment tried so completely, and”—here she halted; then after a moment’s pause said, “Well, I’m quoting,—and with such nursing. He added that as he had promised to refer to the fee, he would say that he would be more than repaid by Mr. Barrie’s recovery, as it would fortify him in adopting the treatment generally, and announcing it to the profession. Mr. Barrie had meantime got ‘the turn.’ I snatched a few minutes to reply to the professor’s letter. It was written with a full heart, but a shaking hand. I fear my letter was but a sorry production; but,” she said firmly, and with a beaming eye, “the professor’s letter is lying in my mother’s Bible, beside my marriage lines and little Nellie’s hair. It is not exactly as he sent it; there are not only the crumpled spots where my tears fell, but under his signature I wrote, before putting it amongst my treasures, ‘the Good Samaritan.’ Mr. Barrie wonders why I did not rather write the ‘Beloved Physician;’ that would have done very well, but I like ‘the Good Samaritan’ better; and now that I think of it, I will get it out to-morrow, and Mr. Barrie can add ‘the Beloved Physician’ himself.”

She did not tell then, but I heard from the “carrier,” that the basket in which the cordials were sent was first well washed and bleached by Bell, then filled with the best her hen-roost, and dairy, and garden could afford, and sent to the physician without any address,—Bell herself having charged the carrier “just to hand it in an’ come away,—no’ to say where it cam’ frae.”

Mrs. Barrie did not confine herself merely to matters of thrift and housekeeping, but dwelt on the higher feelings of our nature, the social sympathies, and the ties and joys of home and kindred. But I could not do justice to the fine taste with which she described or enforced these.

Mr. Barrie occasionally joined in the conversation; but he was interjectional, and more impressive from his tone, the expression of his countenance, and his slight gestures, than from the words he used. When the soiled dress was spoken of, he said with a smile, “Birniepark,”—referring to an awkward servant having spilt a sauceboat full of gravy on Mrs. Barrie’s wedding dress. When “breakage” was mentioned, he said, “Janet,”—recalling an officious, brisk young lady, who, at one of the annual tea meetings of the Sabbath-school teachers in the manse, had seized the tray with great bounce, to help away with the tea-things, and had literally succeeded, as in crossing the lobby she stumbled, and every dish was broken. When the physician’s letter was referred to, he merely said, “Ebenezer,—Epaphroditus,—Onesiphorus.”

Mrs. Barrie finished by giving a few simple rules which she had herself tried to carry out: “Never buy anything you do not need; look twice at a cheap bargain; use the least of everything, lose the least of everything, and make the most of everything; save all you can, use all you can, and be sure and give all you can. So much for the housekeeping; but be as careful of your heart as of your purse, and be kindly affectioned one towards another, in honour preferring one another.”

DILEMMAS.

Mr. Barrie summed up with: “In fact, be judeecious. Practise economy, not parsimony; use the world as not abusing it; owe no man anything but to love one another,—a debt that can never be fully discharged. Love begets love.”

Glancing at the timepiece, I saw that the hour was rather later than I imagined; and having risen, I was thanking Mrs. Barrie for her hearty counsel, and had added that I hoped she would call at Greenknowe before the marriage, and be as kind to Agnes as she had been to me. I saw by Mrs. Barrie’s eye that she had me again.

“I suppose,” said she with great glee, “you will not wish me to call on you both after you are married! I quite expected you to invite me; but Agnes will be calling to say good-bye.”

“What!” said I; “good-bye? She’s not going so far away.”

“But,” said she, “she will make a P.P.C. call.”

“A what?” said I; for I did not know what P.P.C. meant.

“Ask her,” replied she; “I dare not trust myself to quote French in full now.”

I had begun to thank Mr. Barrie, when he said gravely, “Mr. Martin, I greatly desire that there shall be family worship in every house in the parish, and I impress this on all intending young housekeepers; so you will kindly take the service for me to-night.” And without waiting for a reply, he moved towards the handle of the bell, and was pulling it (it was a little bone barrel at the end of a bit of green cord), saying, “We’ll call Bell in,” when I put my hand on his, and said excitedly, “Mr. Barrie! please, Mr. Barrie, do excuse me,—pray, don’t ask me to-night, please don’t!” for the sudden call and circumstances made me quite nervous.

Mrs. Barrie kindly came to my relief by wishing me a hearty good-night, and saying, “Mr. Martin may have another call to make to-night, my dear.”

Mr. Barrie followed me to the lobby, and said he hoped I would excuse his rather hasty invitation to conduct family worship; he had forgotten the apostolic injunction, “Lay hands suddenly on no man.” Then, taking me warmly by the hand, he said, “I rejoice with you to-night at the step you are taking; it is not only judeecious, but promises to be a very happy one for yourselves and your circle. But pray remember the ‘Nisi Dominus frustra’ of your college days,—‘Except the Lord do build the house, they labour in vain that build it.’” There was another firm shake of the hand as we parted, and I heard his voice saying something about taking care of the slippery roads, as I was “some other body’s property now.”

CHAPTER III.

THE MARRIAGE AND THE HOME-COMING.

“We’re a’ noddin’,

Nid, nid, noddin’,

We’re a’ noddin’

At our house at hame.”

MY stay at the manse had been longer than I expected. When I reached Greenknowe, I had hardly recovered from the scare I had got by the proposal to conduct family worship, and my account of the visit to the manse, although short, was a jumble about Bell, and skates, and good Samaritans. Agnes looked at me anxiously, and said, “Are you well enough? You look excited.” I told her what had excited me, at which she first laughed, then looked thoughtful, then sympathetic, and said, “You’re tired, and it is late; come over to-morrow night, if you can;” and after a pause she said, “My mother has often wished me to ask you to make family worship here, and you will just begin to-morrow night.”

This was adding fuel to flame; so, observing my restlessness, she said, “Oh, Robert, forgive me for adding to your excitement” (that was easily done,—the forgiveness, I mean); “you need a good night’s rest.” I did very much, but I did not get it.

I went to bed immediately on going home, tossed and tumbled about, angry at myself for being so unwilling to undertake a duty which, as at one time an aspirant to the ministry, should not have unhinged me. Then my conscience smote me for being undecided in religious matters; then I resolved to be more decided, and began to compose my first social prayer. As I tried this, I found one bit forgotten as another was being thought over. I was about to rise and write a prayer, but checked myself, and resolved to be a man (when a man does this, he is more likely to prove himself a child), and to look for help when it was needed where it was to be found.

P.P.C.

Next night found me at Greenknowe, quietly retailing Mr. and Mrs. Barrie’s sayings; and the “books” were brought in before supper, and I at least got through. Agnes said she was much obliged to me. Mrs. Stewart said little more than “Thank you;” but after the old lady had retired, Agnes told me, in an indirect, quiet way, that Mr. M^cNab never referred to her mother as “His aged servant,” which I had unwisely done, but as “the handmaid of the Lord.” A young college friend had lost a legacy by a similar mistake in the case of a maiden aunt. My readers will excuse me for leaving this bit to suggest its own lesson. Mrs. Stewart was barely sixty years old: how our ideas of “aged” change as we age ourselves!

I carried quite a bundle of letters to the post office that night, many of them invitations to the marriage, others P.P.Cs., which I got explained by Agnes, after a quick sideward movement of the head down, followed by a slow movement of it up, and an inquiring stare, as much as to say, Do you really not know? “It’s pour prendre congé—to take leave, to say good-bye.”

“Oh,” said I, “Mrs. Barrie spoke about P.P.C.; and when I asked the meaning, she said something about French, and to ask you. That’s P.P.C., is it?”

The marriage took place, but I spare my readers an account of it. I could not describe the dresses so as to inform the ladies, nor the presents (which now-a-days are so numerous and costly as to have to undergo the trying ordeal of being laid out for exhibition in a special room), for these were more useful than ornamental. Many of them were esteemed for the donor’s sake rather than for their intrinsic value; none more so than a book, called Cottage Comforts, from Mrs. Barrie, which proved very useful to us, and became Agnes’s present to young housekeepers she was interested in, many of whom in after life thanked her for the good hints and help it gave them. Mr. Barrie gave me a copy of the Confession of Faith, and asked me to read it carefully. Although it was the standard of the Church to which I belonged, and I had declared my adherence to it, I had till then hardly opened it. When I did look into it, many of its statements seemed harsh, and stated so baldly in logical order and theological language, that they seemed to me very different from the teachings of the Bible, interwoven and relieved as these are by illustration, narrative, and incident; and I still think, because it wants the charm of the associations with which the doctrines are joined in the Scriptures, that it is apt to bewilder, if not to prejudice unfavourably, the ordinary reader; but the more I examine it, and compare the parallel passages (i.e. references to texts confirming the doctrines), I see it deserves the name Mr. Barrie gives it in its relation to the Bible,—“an excellent summary of which is to be found in the Westminster Confession of Faith.” Although the excellence is more marked than the summariness; it is a pretty long summary. The “Apostles’ Creed” comes nearer that.

PLAIN SPEAKING.

Dinner followed almost immediately after the marriage. There was a little speechmaking after dinner, or “the collation,” as Mrs. M^cNab called it. Mr. Barrie, in proposing our health, was neat and hearty. He had a hit at me “once thinking of getting married;”—told a story of a lad who, when going to seek a wife, looked so unhappy that his mother said to him, “Keep up yer heart, Johnnie, ma man; faint heart never won fair lady;” “Eh, mother,” said Johnnie, “I’ve mair need to keep it down, for it’s amaist in my mou’ a’ready;”—wished us many happy days, and hoped our married life would be happier than his had been. It took some of us a few seconds to see that this was a very, very good wish.

My uncle proposed Mrs. Stewart’s health. He was a plain, blunt man, and spoke of her as his “auld friend.” Mrs. Stewart was in grand spirits, and said, “Auld, Mr. Martin! auld! I’m no’ sae auld as you.” “Weel, ye’re as auld-like, ony way,” said the honest man; and Mrs. Stewart and he joined as heartily in the laugh that followed as any of us, and it was so long that he ended his speech by a nod to Mrs. Stewart, and “Here’s t’ye, mem; your very good health.”

A confirmed bachelor proposed the bridesmaids. He was, of course, unable to do justice to the toast, with “such” bridesmaids, etc.

Mr. M^cNab gave the health of Mr. Barrie. He spoke well; my uncle said he had “a grand stock o’ dictionar’ and college-bred words.”.

“THE FROSTIT CORN.”

Some songs were sung. The bachelor friend had a fine voice, and had cultivated it carefully. Few could equal him at “Gae fetch to me a pint o’ wine;” and when pressed to sing it, he bantered about having lost his best song, “O Nanny, wilt thou gang wi’ me?” he had not even got round sufficiently to try “My Nannie’s awa’,” but he hoped he would regain his spirits; he would try “When our king comes o’er the water,” and gave it in fine style. A cousin of Agnes’s, her senior by a very few years, sang “A’body’s like to get married but me,” with sweetness and humour, the last three verses so very well as to put our bachelor friend in great spirits. When she finished the following verse, the last one—

“It’s hard to tak’ shelter behint a laigh dyke,

It’s hard to gang wi’ ane ye dinna weel like,

It’s hard to forsake ane ye fain wad gang wi’,

But it’s harder that a’body’s married but me,”—

my uncle said, “Ye maun be ill to please; it canna hae been for want o’ offers.” He was then pressed to sing, and did his best; the words were new to all of us, but the tune, “Johnnie Cope,” was familiar. He said it was written by a friend of his, a farmer beside him. We suspected that the author was always very near him. He had sung it at the rent dinner in his laird’s house, and the laird was delighted with it, although it “wasna jist exactly what he wad like to happen to himsel’:”

THE FROSTIT CORN.

Tune—“Johnnie Cope.”

“Oh, I’m a young farmer hard set by the frost,

My gude expectations hae sairly been cross’t,

My craps that look’t weel, they are noo nearly lost,

By thir calamitous mornin’s.

“In the midst o’ last simmer it was understude

That we wad a’ haen plenty o’ gude halesome fude,

For man an’ for beast; an’ we ettled to dae gude,

But the frost it has backit it sairly.

“An’ when that the frost it did gang awa’,

The rain it came on like to ruin us a’;

It rained that lang, that it shortened the straw,

An’ added aye the mair till our mornin’.

“But yet for a’ that we maunna compleen,

It was sae ordered, or it ne’er wad ha’ been;

It was maybe for our gude, tho’ that hasna yet been seen,

For to humble our pride in the mornin’.

“When things lookit weel, a scheme I had laid,

I promised to marry a bloomin’ young maid,

To share o’ the o’ercome when a’thing was paid,

But the frost it has backit it sairly.

“But my crap as it is, it is noo in the yaird,

An’ still for the lassie I hae a regaird;

I think that I’ll marry her, an’ no pay the laird,—

Let him ken there was frost in the mornin’.

“An’ if he should break out in ragin’ and strife,

He may weel tak’ the gear, but he’ll no tak’ my life;

If I should hae naething else, I will aye hae my wife

To comfort me in the mornin’.”

Need I say that the applause was loud, and long, and real?

“BLITHE AN’ MERRY WERE WE A’.”

Marriage trips, wedding tours, were not so common forty years ago as they are now: we had none. Shortly after my uncle’s song was finished, and with the glee it inspired still beaming in their faces, the guests went to our house. We were the last to leave, which we did under a shower of old shoes “for luck.” There was the usual gathering of noisy children round the bride’s door, waiting for the coppers scattered on such occasions; and as they scrambled for them, we got into the drosky, and were driven home, followed by an increasing number of children cheering in an intermittent way, all anxious to be in time for the “scatterin’ o’ the ha’pennies,” which had to be repeated at the bridegroom’s door. There was an outer circle of grown-up people, who showed their goodwill by a welcoming cheer. As Agnes crossed her threshold, my oldest sister, who had come to “receive” her, allowed an oat cake to fall on the young wife’s head; and the younger folks scrambled for the bits, as these had some not very clearly defined faculty of foretelling their future luck, especially if confirmed by a dream over the bridescake. Agnes was placed by the matrons present at the head of the supper table, and thereby installed as mistress of the house. After supper there were games, in which the elderly folks joined, the older men with demonstrative glee. The more matronly matrons required a good deal of pressing—their “play days were bye;” but most of them went through a short game, others kept remonstrating with the old men, especially their own husbands, who were oftener up, and who even when looking on capered and “hooched” (i.e. shouted merrily):—“Tammas, Tammas! ye’re forgettin’ yersel’;”—“Stop that auld man o’ mine; he’ll hurt himsel’;”—“Oh man, James, ye’re ower auld for sic nonsense. Let the young folks carry on the games noo.”

After the first round of games, in which all the guests—old and young—took part, and the seniors had shown their skill, these mostly settled to be spectators, all the while enjoying the frolics of the young folk as much as their own canty cracks, whilst the younger portion had the carrying on of the fun, which they did right merrily. Old Scotch songs were sung, and kindly sentiments uttered, as those will readily believe whose memory can recall the homely convivialities of forty or fifty years ago. My uncle was pressed by old and young to sing another song like “The Frostit Corn,”—“one we did not hear every day,”—“a real country-fireside song.” He said he “would gie ane; it was no’ as gude as ‘The Frostit Corn.’ It was ca’d ‘The Country Rockin’.’ But maist o’ ye’ll no’ ken what a rockin’ is. It’s a gatherin’ o’ neebors for a night’s diversion. The women brang their ‘rocks’—things for spinning woo’ or lint wi’, an’ birled an’ span an’ crackit awa’. I’ve seen them hunders o’ times in my young days, but there’s no sic a thing noo as ‘the rock and the wee pickle tow.’ Mind it’s hamespun an’ countrified.” Then he began:—

THE COUNTRY ROCKIN’.

“It has often been alloo’d that the best o’ human life

Is the hours o’ social harmony when free from party strife,

When freendship smiles and love beguiles ’mang lads an’ lasses kindly jokin’;

These joys we only find when assembled at a country rockin’.

“When the gudeman frae the fire bids us frankly venture ben,

In hamely sangs and social joys a nicht wi’ him to spen’,

The welcome kind attracts each mind, we needna ither friendly token,

When we join the honest social core assembled at a country rockin’.

“Noo, since we’re cheerie met for a nicht o’ social joy,

Let every care be banished far that wad our peace destroy;

When friendship smiles and love beguiles, at sangs we’ll hae a hearty yokin’,

An’ we’ll chant the lays o’ Robbie Burns, wha first described the country rockin’.

“An’ when we tak’ our hameward road, it’s no taen sair amiss,

Tho’ frae some bonny smilin’ face we steal a wee bit kiss,

Her heart to move, an’ tell our love in vows that never will be broken,

Till in some biggin’ o’ our ain we hae a hearty country rockin’.”

AUNTIE MATTIE ON SONGS.

In the enthusiastic chorus every voice joined, and over and over again after the last verse did the chorus ring through the room; and, “Anither, Mr. Martin, anither like that!” was rained on the canny man. During the pause, Auntie Mattie, a sister of Mrs. Stewart’s, said, “Sing the ‘Farmer’s Ingle,’ Mr. Martin, for auld langsyne. I like it better than the ‘Rockin’.”

“Sae dae I,” said my uncle, “but it’s threadbare noo.”

“Threadbare!” said Auntie Mattie; “threadbare, did ye say, Mr. Martin? A sang that’s worth ca’in’ a sang at a’ will never get threadbare, ony mair than the sun’ll get auld-fashioned altho’ we see’t every day o’ our lives; and ye’ll surely sing’t to obleege me?”

Auntie Mattie was a sonsy, kindly, cheery woman—a’body’s body; but she hardly expected that my uncle would bring her in for a song by the paction he made.

“Mattie,” said he,—“oh, I beg yer pardon, I should hae ca’d ye Mrs. Dickson, but ye lookit sae like what ye did langsyne that Mattie cam’ oot afore I kent,—I’ll sing the ‘Farmer’s Ingle’ if ye’ll sing the ‘Lawland lads think they are fine.’ Ye sang’t at our waddin’, an’ it’s ringin’ in my heid yet. Thae auld sangs are worth a bushel o’ the new trash the folk ca’ sangs noo-a-days. Come awa’, my bonnie leddy, let’s hear the ‘Lawland Lads,’ and ye’ll hae the ‘Farmer’s Ingle’ as weel as I can gie’t; that ye will.”

Auntie Mattie said, “Hoots!” and “Nonsense!” and that “her voice was clean gane;” but her singing of the “Lawland Lads” contradicted all these statements, and was so sweet, and so true, and so natural, as to command strict silence at the second note, which deepened as she proceeded. The verse—

“Few compliments between us pass,

I ca’ him aye my Hieland laddie,

An’ he ca’s me his Lawland lass,

An’ rows me in his tartan plaidie”—

as she sung it, was a thing to be remembered. When she had finished and the sincere applause was over, which took the shape of little complimentary speeches to her, and expressions of mutual delight to one another, rather than the noisy demonstration which had followed my uncle’s songs, my uncle said, “Eh, Mattie—hoots! excuse me. Eh, Mrs. Dickson, there’s no’ a fail’d inch o’ ye. That sang was like caller air; it was jist grand, splendid a’thegither. It’s taen the breath frae me completely. I daurna sing after that.”

“THE FARMER’S INGLE.”

“Come away, Mr. Martin,” said she; “a bargain’s a bargain. Come away wi’ the ‘Farmer’s Ingle,’” which he did. And I give the song as he sang it, as, although common in country districts in my young days, it is little sung now. The chorus was well known to us all, and we did join in it:—

“Let Turks triumph, let tyrants pray,

Let poets sing melodiously,

Let Turks triumph and priests live single,

But my delight’s at the farmer’s ingle.

Chorus—For the farmer’s ingle is the place

Where freedom shines on ilka face.

My wish is while on earth to mingle

Wi’ gude honest people at the farmer’s ingle.

“In winter when the frost an’ snaw

Drives a’ the masons frae the wa’,

Your hearts wad warm and yer ears wad tingle

To hear the cracks at the farmer’s ingle.

Chorus—For the farmer’s ingle is the place, etc.

“The British ship’s the seaman’s boast,

Success to tredd’s the merchant’s toast,

The miser for his money does pingle,

But my delight’s in the farmer’s ingle.

Chorus—For the farmer’s ingle is the place, etc.

“The sailor boldly ploughs the main,

The soldier flies o’er heaps of slain,

But my wish on earth’s ne’er to live single;

Here’s a bumper to the farmer’s ingle.

Chorus—For the farmer’s ingle is the place,” etc.

The “thinking of going home,” which had been hinted at once or twice before, was now general, and the party broke up with good wishes and kind feelings warmly expressed: “We’ve haen a grand nicht o’t!”—“Lang may ye be spared to ane anither, an’ aye be as happy as ye’ve made your freends the nicht!”—crowned by “Auld Langsyne,” with, as the play-bills have it, “the whole strength of the company.”

Our house was above the shop; separate villas, now so common for tradesmen and shopkeepers, were then only occupied by the gentry. The system of villas in the outskirts has shortened the hours of business, and is healthier, but the above-the-shop houses kept a man, and often, be it said with all honour, his wife, thoroughly at the head of affairs. In many businesses, then as yet, the wives were invaluable. Who cannot recall the active, polite, effective way in which the Mistress “kept the shop”? and how nice it was to be served by her own self, with her interchange of homely civilities, and the ready knack she had of hitting on what was wanted! This good custom is happily still not uncommon. Long may it continue!

PEGGY RITCHIE ON THE KIRKYARD.

My business did not require Agnes to be in the shop, but in my absence she used to look in to help the lad or lads, and took to it, and the customers took to her. Often, also, when the assistants were out, she came down to keep me (maybe to keep herself) from wearying; and she soon made such changes as only an orderly woman can devise; and from being interested, she easily became acquainted with the details, and made alterations here and reforms there that resulted in our increased prosperity and comfort. We went on steadily making things better, soon got to be easier in money matters, then laid past a little, then looked out for some investment. But I am the writer, not the subject, of these “bits,” and will spare my readers the dry details of a homely life in a country village. I only add that we had no extra call on our means in the way of having to bring up a family. This was a sore subject many years ago, but it is a mere fact now.

My wife being anxious to get everything to her mind about the house, began next morning to clear up, and sent for some folks who were very glad to get some of the substantial remains to eke out their scanty tables. One of these was Peggy Ritchie. She had been a servant in my father’s house at the time of his death, and my housekeeper for nearly a year thereafter. She had married Gavin Sinclair, a widower with a moderately-sized family. Her father was the sexton and minister’s man, but now unfit for work, and Gavin, or Guy as he was commonly called, “officiated” instead of old Adam Ritchie. Peggy said she was “thankfu’ to get onything, forbye being proud to be mindit, for Guy was very slack the noo, there werena near sae mony deaths as ane would expect this cauld weather. It was very unfortunate, it came at an ill time; if there wasna something doin’ in the kirkyard soon, it wad be a bad job. Guy could say, as the beadle o’ Borthwick said to the Lord Chief Baron, ‘he hadna buried a leevin’ craitur for six weeks.’”

“And how’s your father, Peggy?” said my wife.

“Very middlin’, Mrs. Martin” (Peggy used Mrs. very often and very graciously); “but he was sayin’ to Guy last nicht, after Mr. Barrie gaed out,—he ca’d in to see my faither; he often ca’s. I’m aye glad to see him. He kens what puir folk need in cauld weather. Well, as I was sayin’, my faither says to Guy, ‘Be thankfu’ ye hae Mr. Barrie to deal wi’; he’s a considerate man an’ a gentleman. Ane o’ the ministers before him, no’ to name onybody,—it’s as weel no’ to gie names,—weel, ane o’ the ministers in my day,’ says my faither, ‘was the maist pernickety, impatient, bathersome craitur’ ever was seen. If he wanted onything, ye must do’t in an instant, or he was fair dancin’ wi’ passion. It was a thrang time in the kirkyard, a sair winter, and I had some idle men helpin’ me. The minister was getting something done to the manse, and aye send-sendin’ for me to help, and to come that very moment. I’ve actually seen me,’ says my faither, ‘hae to bring men out o’ the very grave to serve him.’ My faither’s sair failed.”

Knowing that Peggy had been my housekeeper, my wife asked if there was anything I was specially fond of, any special dishes, etc.

MATHIESON’S HEID.

Peggy’s sense of importance was flattered at being consulted (as she afterwards put it), and she said, with a gesture of surprise, “The maister,—Maister Martin,—there was nae man could be easier pleased wi’ his meat than him. Gie him a lamb leg an’ a berry tart to his denner, an’ he was perfectly satisfied.” So he may, thought my wife.

“Speakin’ about denners,” continued Peggy, “Miss Park got a terrible fricht last Saturday nicht. The flesher’s laddie was takin’ a sheep’s heid to the Mathiesons, but as there was naebody in the house, he raps on Miss Park’s door,—she stops next them. Weel, her servant was out, an’ she answers the door hersel’. She’s an awfu’ nervish craitur’, so she opens a wee bit o’ the door, a’ shakin’, and disna the laddie shove the sheep’s heid bang in? The door was that little open that the neck rubbit against her hands; and he bawls out, ‘Mathieson’s heid,’ an’ let it fa’ in the lobby an’ awa’ in a moment. She was that fear’d that she couldna move, but keepit starin’ awa’ at the ugly black head, thinking a’ sorts o’ things. When her servant cam’ in she was fair chitterin’ wi’ fear. It was real thochtless o’ the laddie.”

Blinkbonny had its events and “foys” (i.e. entertainments), but nothing of special interest occurred until the Disruption of 1843, of which I will treat in my next chapter.

CHAPTER IV.

THE TWO SIDES OF THE CHURCH QUESTION.

“They lay aside their private cares

To mind the Kirk and State affairs;

They’ll talk o’ patronage and priests

Wi’ kindling fury in their breasts,

Or tell what new taxation ’s comin’,

And ferlie at the folk in Lon’on.”—Burns.