AULD LICHT IDYLS

BY

J. M. BARRIE

TO

FREDERICK GREENWOOD

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE SCHOOL-HOUSEII. THRUMSIII. THE AULD LICHT KIRKIV. LADS AND LASSESV. THE AULD LICHTS IN ARMSVI. THE OLD DOMINIEVII. CREE QUEERY AND MYSY DROLLYVIII. THE COURTING OF T'NOWHEAD'S BELLIX. DAVIT LUNAN'S POLITICAL REMINISCENCESX. A VERY OLD FAMILYXI. LITTLE RATHIE'S "BURAL"XII. A LITERARY CLUB

AULD LICHT IDYLS. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

Early this morning I opened a window in my school-house in the glenof Quharity, awakened by the shivering of a starving sparrow againstthe frosted glass. As the snowy sash creaked in my hand, he made offto the waterspout that suspends its "tangles" of ice over a gapingtank, and, rebounding from that, with a quiver of his little blackbreast, bobbed through the network of wire and joined a few of hisfellows in a forlorn hop round the henhouse in search of food. Twodays ago my hilarious bantam-cock, saucy to the last, my cheeriestcompanion, was found frozen in his own water-trough, the corn-saucerin three pieces by his side. Since then I have taken the hens intothe house. At meal-times they litter the hearth with each other'sfeathers; but for the most part they give little trouble, roostingon the rafters of the low-roofed kitchen among staves and fishing-rods. 

Another white blanket has been spread upon the glen since I lookedout last night; for over the same wilderness of snow that has met mygaze for a week, I see the steading of Waster Lunny sunk deeper intothe waste. The school-house, I suppose, serves similarly as a snow-markfor the people at the farm. Unless that is Waster Lunny's grievefoddering the cattle in the snow, not a living thing is visible. Theghostlike hills that pen in the glen have ceased to echo to the sharpcrack of the sportsman's gun (so clear in the frosty air as to be awarning to every rabbit and partridge in the valley); and only giantCatlaw shows here and there a black ridge, rearing his head at theentrance to the glen and struggling ineffectually to cast off hisshroud. Most wintry sign of all I think, as I close the window hastily, is the open farm-stile, its poles lying embedded in the snow where theywere last flung by Waster Lunny's herd. Through the still air comesfrom a distance a vibration as of a tuning-fork: a robin, perhaps, alighting on the wire of a broken fence. 

In the warm kitchen, where I dawdle over my breakfast, the widowedbantam-hen has perched on the back of my drowsy cat. It is needlessto go through the form of opening the school to-day; for, with theexception of Waster Lunny's girl, I have had no scholars for ninedays. Yesterday she announced that there would be no more schoolingtill it was fresh, "as she wasna comin';" and indeed, though thesmoke from the farm chimneys is a pretty prospect for a snowed-upschool-master, the trudge between the two houses must be weary workfor a bairn. As for the other children, who have to come from allparts of the hills and glen, I may not see them for weeks. Last yearthe school was practically deserted for a month. A pleasant outlook, with the March examinations staring me in the face, and an inspectorfresh from Oxford. I wonder what he would say if he saw me to-daydigging myself out of the school-house with the spade I now keep forthe purpose in my bedroom. 

The kail grows brittle from the snow in my dank and cheerlessgarden. A crust of bread gathers timid pheasants round me. Therobins, I see, have made the coal-house their home. Waster Lunny'sdog never barks without rousing my sluggish cat to a joyful response. It is Dutch courage with the birds and beasts of the glen, harddriven for food; but I look attentively for them in these longforenoons, and they have begun to regard me as one of themselves. Mybreath freezes, despite my pipe, as I peer from the door: and with afortnight-old newspaper I retire to the ingle-nook. The friendliestthing I have seen to-day is the well-smoked ham suspended, from mykitchen rafters. It was a gift from the farm of Tullin, with a loadof peats, the day before the snow began to fall. I doubt if I haveseen a cart since. 

This afternoon I was the not altogether passive spectator of acurious scene in natural history. My feet encased in stout "tackety"boots, I had waded down two of Waster Lunny's fields to the glenburn: in summer the never-failing larder from which, with wrigglingworm or garish fly, I can any morning whip a savory breakfast; inthe winter time the only thing in the valley that defies the ice-king'schloroform. I watched the water twisting black and solemn through thesnow, the ragged ice on its edge proof of the toughness of the strugglewith the frost, from which it has, after all, crept only halfvictorious. A bare wild rose-bush on the farther bank was violentlyagitated, and then there ran from its root a black-headed rat withwings. Such was the general effect. I was not less interested when mystartled eyes divided this phenomenon into its component parts, andrecognized in the disturbance on the opposite bank only another fiercestruggle among the hungry animals for existence: they need no professorto teach them the doctrine of the survival of the fittest. A weasel hadgripped a water-hen (whit-tit and beltie they are called In theseparts) cowering at the root of the rose-bush, and was being draggeddown the bank by the terrified bird, which made for the water as itsonly chance of escape. In less disadvantageous circumstances the weaselwould have made short work of his victim; but as he only had the birdby the tail, the prospects of the combatants were equalized. It was thetug-of-war being played with a life as the stakes. "If I do not reachthe water, " was the argument that went on in the heaving little breastof the one, "I am a dead bird. " "If this water-hen, " reasoned theother, "reaches the burn, my supper vanishes with her. " Down thesloping bank the hen had distinctly the best of it, but after thatcame a yard, of level snow, and here she tugged and screamed in vain. I had so far been an unobserved spectator; but my sympathies were withthe beltie, and, thinking it high time to interfere, I jumped into thewater. The water-hen gave one mighty final tug and toppled into theburn; while the weasel viciously showed me his teeth, and then stoleslowly up the bank to the rose-bush, whence, "girning, " he watched melift his exhausted victim from the water, and set off with her for theschool-house. Except for her draggled tail, she already lookswonderfully composed, and so long as the frost holds I shall have littledifficulty in keeping her with me. On Sunday I found a frozen sparrow, whose heart had almost ceased to beat, in the disused pigsty, and puthim for warmth into my breast-pocket. The ungrateful little scrub boltedwithout a word of thanks about ten minutes afterward, to the alarm of mycat, which had not known his whereabouts. 

I am alone in the school-house. On just such an evening as this lastyear my desolation drove me to Waster Lunny, where I was storm-stayedfor the night. The recollection decides me to court my own warmhearth, to challenge my right hand again to a game at the "dambrod"against my left. I do not lock the school-house door at nights; foreven a highwayman (there is no such luck) would be received with openarms, and I doubt if there be a barred door in all the glen. But itis cosier to put on the shutters. The road to Thrums has lost itselfmiles down the valley. I wonder what they are doing out in the world. Though I am the Free Church precentor in Thrums (ten pounds a year, and the little town is five miles away), they have not seen me forthree weeks. A packman whom I thawed yesterday at my kitchen firetells me that last Sabbath only the Auld Lichts held service. Otherpeople realized that they were snowed up. Far up the glen, after ittwists out of view, a manse and half a dozen thatched cottages thatare there may still show a candle-light, and the crumbling gravestoneskeep cold vigil round the gray old kirk. Heavy shadows fade into thesky to the north. A flake trembles against the window; but it is toocold for much snow to-night. The shutter bars the outer world fromthe school-house. 

CHAPTER II. 

THRUMS. 

Thrums is the name I give here to the handful of houses jumbledtogether in a cup, which is the town nearest the school-house. Untiltwenty years ago its every other room, earthen-floored and showingthe rafters overhead, had a hand-loom, and hundreds of weavers livedand died Thoreaus "ben the hoose" without knowing it. In those daysthe cup overflowed and left several houses on the top of the hill, where their cold skeletons still stand. The road that climbs from thesquare, which is Thrums' heart, to the north is so steep and straight, that in a sharp frost children hunker at the top and are blown downwith a roar and a rush on rails of ice. At such times, when viewedfrom the cemetery where the traveller from the school-house gets hisfirst glimpse of the little town. Thrums is but two church-steeplesand a dozen red-stone patches standing out of a snow-heap. One of thesteeples belongs to the new Free Kirk, and the other to the parishchurch, both of which the first Auld Licht minister I knew ran pastwhen he had not time to avoid them by taking a back wynd. He was buta pocket edition of a man, who grew two inches after he was called;but he was so full of the cure of souls, that he usually scudded toit with his coat-tails quarrelling behind him. His successor, whom Iknew better, was a greater scholar, and said, "Let us see what thisis in the original Greek, " as an ordinary man might invite a friendto dinner; but he never wrestled as Mr. Dishart, his successor, didwith the pulpit cushions, nor flung himself at the pulpit door. Norwas he so "hard on the Book, " as Lang Tammas, the precentor, expressedit, meaning that he did not bang the Bible with his fist as much asmight have been wished. 

Thrums had been known to me for years before I succeeded thecaptious dominie at the school-house in the glen. The dear old soulwho originally induced me to enter the Auld Licht kirk by lamentingthe "want of Christ" in the minister's discourses was my firstlandlady. For the last ten years of her life she was bedridden, andonly her interest in the kirk kept her alive. Her case against theminister was that he did not call to denounce her sufficiently oftenfor her sins, her pleasure being to hear him bewailing her on hisknees as one who was probably past praying for. She was as sweet andpure a woman as I ever knew, and had her wishes been horses, shewould have sold them and kept (and looked after) a minister herself. 

There are few Auld Licht communities in Scotland nowadays--perhapsbecause people are now so well off, for the most devout Auld Lichtswere always poor, and their last years were generally a grimstruggle with the workhouse. Many a heavy-eyed, back-bent weaver haswon his Waterloo in Thrums fighting on his stumps. There are a scoreor two of them left still, for, though there are now two factoriesin the town, the clatter of the hand-loom can yet be heard, and theyhave been starving themselves of late until they have saved upenough money to get another minister. 

The square is packed away in the centre of Thrums, and irregularlybuilt little houses squeeze close to it like chickens clusteringround a hen. Once the Auld Lichts held property in the square, butother denominations have bought them out of it, and now few of themare even to be found in the main streets that make for the rim ofthe cup. They live in the kirk wynd, or in retiring little houses, the builder of which does not seem to have remembered that it is agood plan to have a road leading to houses until after they werefinished. Narrow paths straggling round gardens, some of them withstunted gates, which it is commoner to step over than, to open, havebeen formed to reach these dwellings, but in winter they are runningstreams, and then the best way to reach a house such as that ofTammy Mealmaker the wright, pronounced wir-icht, is over a brokendyke and a pig-sty. Tammy, who died a bachelor, had been soured inhis youth by a disappointment in love, of which he spoke but seldom. She lived far away in a town which he had wandered in the days whenhis blood ran hot, and they became engaged. Unfortunately, however, Tammy forgot her name, and he never knew the address; so there theaffair ended, to his silent grief. He admitted himself, over hissnuff-mull of an evening, that he was a very ordinary character, buta certain halo of horror was cast over the whole family by theirconnection with little Joey Sutie, who was pointed at in Thrums asthe laddie that whistled when he went past the minister. Joey becamea pedler, and was found dead one raw morning dangling over a highwall within a few miles of Thrums. When climbing the dyke his packhad slipped back, the strap round his neck, and choked him. 

You could generally tell an Auld Licht in Thrums when you passedhim, his dull, vacant face wrinkled over a heavy wob. He wore tagsof yarn round his trousers beneath the knee, that looked likeostentatious garters, and frequently his jacket of corduroy was puton beneath his waistcoat. If he was too old to carry his load on hisback, he wheeled it on a creaking barrow, and when he met a friendthey said, "Ay, Jeames, " and "Ay, Davit, " and then could think ofnothing else. At long intervals they passed through the square, disappearing or coming into sight round the town-house which standson the south side of it, and guards the entrance to a steep braethat leads down and then twists up on its lonely way to the countytown. I like to linger over the square, for it was from an upperwindow in it that I got to know Thrums. On Saturday nights, when theAuld Licht young men came into the square dressed and washed to lookat the young women errand-going, and to laugh some time afterward toeach other, it presented a glare of light; and here even came thecheap jacks and the Fair Circassian, and the showman, who, besidesplaying "The Mountain Maid and the Shepherd's Bride, " exhibited partof the tall of Balaam's ass, the helm of Noah's ark, and the tartanplaid in which Flora McDonald wrapped Prince Charlie. More selectentertainment, such as Shuffle Kitty's wax-work, whose motto was, "Arag to pay, and in you go, " were given in a hall whose approach wasby an outside stair. On the Muckle Friday, the fair for whichchildren storing their pocket-money would accumulate sevenpencehalfpenny in less than six months, the square was crammed withgingerbread stalls, bag-pipers, fiddlers, and monstrosities who weregifted with second-sight. There was a bearded man, who had neitherlegs nor arms, and was drawn through the streets in a small cart byfour dogs. By looking at you he could see all the clock-work inside, as could a boy who was led about by his mother at the end of astring. Every Friday there was the market, when a dozen ramshacklecarts containing vegetables and cheap crockery filled the centre ofthe square, resting in line on their shafts. A score of farmers' wivesor daughters in old-world garments squatted against the town-housewithin walls of butter on cabbage-leaves, eggs and chickens. Towardevening the voice of the buckie-man shook the square, and rivalfish-cadgers, terrible characters who ran races on horseback, screamedlibels at each other over a fruiterer's barrow. Then it was time fordouce Auld Lichts to go home, draw their stools near the fire, spreadtheir red handkerchiefs over their legs to prevent their trousersgetting singed, and read their "Pilgrim's Progress. "

In my school-house, however, I seem to see the square most readilyin the Scotch mist which so often filled it, loosening the stonesand choking the drains. There was then no rattle of rain against mywindow-sill, nor dancing of diamond drops on the roofs, but blobs ofwater grew on the panes of glass to reel heavily down them. Then thesodden square would have shed abundant tears if you could have takenit in your hands and wrung it like a dripping cloth. At such a timethe square would be empty but for one vegetable-cart left in thecare of a lean collie, which, tied to the wheel, whined and shiveredunderneath. Pools of water gather in the coarse sacks that have beenspread over the potatoes and bundles of greens, which turn to manurein their lidless barrels. The eyes of the whimpering dog never leavea black close over which hangs the sign of the Bull, probably therefuge of the hawker. At long intervals a farmer's gig rumbles overthe bumpy, ill-paved square, or a native, with his head buried inhis coat, peeps out of doors, skurries across the way, and vanishes. Most of the leading shops are here, and the decorous draper venturesa few yards from the pavement to scan the sky, or note the effect ofhis new arrangement in scarves. Planted against his door is thebutcher, Henders Todd, white-aproned, and with a knife in his hand, gazing interestedly at the draper, for a mere man may look at anelder. The tinsmith brings out his steps, and, mounting them, stealthily removes the saucepans and pepper-pots that dangle on awire above his sign-board. Pulling to his door he shuts out thefoggy light that showed in his solder-strewn workshop. The square isdeserted again. A bundle of sloppy parsley slips from the hawker'scart and topples over the wheel in driblets. The puddles in thesacks overflow and run together. The dog has twisted his chain rounda barrel and yelps sharply. As if in response comes a rush of otherdogs. A terrified fox-terrier tears across the square with half ascore of mongrels, the butcher's mastiff, and some collies at hisheels; he is doubtless a stranger, who has insulted them by hisglossy coat. For two seconds the square shakes to an invasion ofdogs, and then again there is only one dog in sight. 

No one will admit the Scotch mist. It "looks saft. " The tinsmith"wudna wonder but what it was makkin' for rain. " Tammas Haggart andPete Lunan dander into sight bareheaded, and have to stretch outtheir hands to discover what the weather is like. By-and-bye theycome to a standstill to discuss the immortality of the soul, andthen they are looking silently at the Bull. Neither speaks, but theybegin to move toward the inn at the same time, and its door closeson them before they know what they are doing. A few minutesafterward Jinny Dundas, who is Pete's wife, runs straight for theBull in her short gown, which is tucked up very high, and emergeswith her husband soon afterward. Jinny is voluble, but Pete saysnothing. Tammas follows later, putting his head out at the doorfirst, and looking cautiously about him to see if any one is insight. Pete is a U. P. , and may be left to his fate, but the AuldLicht minister thinks that, though it be hard work, Tammas is worthsaving. 

To the Auld Licht of the past there were three degrees of damnation--auld kirk, playacting, chapel. Chapel was the name always given to theEnglish Church, of which I am too much an Auld Licht myself to care towrite even now. To belong to the chapel was, in Thrums, to be a RomanCatholic, and the boy who flung a clod of earth at the English minister--who called the Sabbath Sunday--or dropped a "divet" down his chimneywas held to be in the right way. The only pleasant story Thrums couldtell of the chapel was that its steeple once fell. It is surprising thatan English church was ever suffered to be built in such a place; thoughprobably the county gentry had something to do with it. They travelledabout too much to be good men. Small though Thrums used to be, it hadfour kirks in all before the disruption, and then another, which splitinto two immediately afterward. The spire of the parish church, known asthe auld kirk, commands a view of the square, from which the entrance tothe kirk-yard would be visible, if it were not hidden by the town-house. The kirk-yard has long been crammed, and is not now in use, but thechurch is sufficiently large to hold nearly all the congregations inThrums. Just at the gate lived Pete Todd, the father of Sam'l, a man ofwhom the Auld Lichts had reason to be proud. Pete was an every-day manat ordinary times, and was even said, when his wife, who had been longill, died, to have clasped his hands and exclaimed, "Hip, hip, hurrah!"adding only as an afterthought, "The Lord's will be done. " But midsummerwas his great opportunity. Then took place the rouping of the seats inthe parish church. The scene was the kirk itself, and the seats beingput up to auction were knocked down to the highest bidder. Thissometimes led to the breaking of the peace. Every person was present whowas at all particular as to where he sat, and an auctioneer was engagedfor the day. He rouped the kirk-seats like potato-drills, beginning byasking for a bid. Every seat was put up to auction separately; for somewere much more run after than others, and the men were instructed bytheir wives what to bid for. Often the women joined in, and as they bidexcitedly against each other the church rang with opprobrious epithets. A man would come to the roup late, and learn that the seat he wanted hadbeen knocked down. He maintained that he had been unfairly treated, ordenounced the local laird to whom the seat-rents went. If he did not getthe seat he would leave the kirk. Then the woman who had forestalled himwanted to know what he meant by glaring at her so, and the auction wasinterrupted. Another member would "thrip down the throat" of theauctioneer that he had a right to his former seat if he continued to paythe same price for it. The auctioneer was screamed at for favoring hisfriends, and at times the group became so noisy that men and women hadto be forcibly ejected. Then was Pete's chance. Hovering at the gate, hecaught the angry people on their way home and took them into hisworkshop by an outside stair. There he assisted them in denouncing theparish kirk, with the view of getting them to forswear it. Pete made agood many Auld Lichts in his time out of unpromising material. 

Sights were to be witnessed in the parish church at times that couldnot have been made more impressive by the Auld Lichts themselves. Here sinful women were grimly taken to task by the minister, who, having thundered for a time against adultery in general, called uponone sinner in particular to stand forth. She had to step forwardinto a pew near the pulpit, where, alone and friendless, and staredat by the congregation, she cowered in tears beneath hisdenunciations. In that seat she had to remain during the forenoonservice. She returned home alone, and had to come back alone to hersolitary seat in the afternoon. All day no one dared speak to her. She was as much an object of contumely as the thieves and smugglerswho, in the end of last century, it was the privilege of FeudalBailie Wood (as he was called) to whip round the square. 

It is nearly twenty years since the gardeners had their last "walk"in Thrums, and they survived all the other benefit societies thatwalked once every summer. There was a "weavers' walk" and five orsix others, the "women's walk" being the most picturesque. Thesewere processions of the members of benefit societies through thesquare and wynds, and all the women walked in white, to the numberof a hundred or more, behind the Tillie-drum band, Thrums having inthose days no band of its own. 

From the northwest corner of the square a narrow street sets off, jerking this way and that, as if uncertain what point to make for. Here lurks the post-office, which had once the reputation of beingas crooked in its ways as the street itself. 

A railway line runs into Thrums now. The sensational days of thepost-office were when the letters were conveyed officially in acreaking old cart from Tilliedrum. The "pony" had seen better daysthan the cart, and always looked as if he were just on the point ofsucceeding in running away from it. Hooky Crewe was driver--socalled because an iron hook was his substitute for a right arm. Robbie Proctor, the blacksmith, made the hook and fixed it in. Crewesuffered from rheumatism, and when he felt it coming on he stayed athome. Sometimes his cart came undone in a snow-drift; when Hooky, extricated from the fragments by some chance wayfarer, was depositedwith his mail-bag (of which he always kept a grip by the hook) in afarmhouse. It was his boast that his letters always reached theirdestination eventually. They might be a long time about it, but"slow _and_ sure" was his motto. Hooky emphasized his "slow_and_ sure" by taking a snuff. He was a godsend to the postmistress, forto his failings or the infirmities of his gig were charged all delays. 

At the time I write of, the posting of the letter took as long andwas as serious an undertaking as the writing. That means a gooddeal, for many of the letters were written to dictation by theThrums school-master, Mr. Fleemister, who belonged to the Auld Kirk. He was one of the few persons in the community who looked upon thedespatch of his letters by the post-mistress as his right, and not afavor on her part; there was a long-standing feud between themaccordingly. After a few tumblers of Widow Stables' treacle-beer--inthe concoction of which she was the acknowledged mistress for milesaround--the schoolmaster would sometimes go the length of hintingthat he could get the post-mistress dismissed any day. This mightypower seemed to rest on a knowledge of "steamed" letters. Thrums hada high respect for the school-master; but among themselves theweavers agreed that, even if he did write to the Government, LizzieHarrison, the post-mistress, would refuse to transmit the letter. The more shrewd ones among us kept friends with both parties; for, unless you could write "writ-hand, " you could not compose a letterwithout the school-master's assistance; and, unless Lizzie was socourteous as to send it to its destination, it might lie--or so itwas thought--much too long in the box. A letter addressed by theschoolmaster found great disfavor in Lizzie's eyes. You mightexplain to her that you had merely called in his assistance becauseyou were a poor hand at writing yourself, but that was held noexcuse. Some addressed their own envelopes with much labor, andsought to palm off the whole as their handiwork. It reflects on thepost-mistress somewhat that she had generally found them out by nextday, when, if in a specially vixenish mood, she did not hesitate toupbraid them for their perfidy. 

To post a letter you did not merely saunter to the post-office anddrop it into the box. The cautious correspondent first went into theshop and explained to Lizzie how matters stood. She kept what shecalled a bookseller's shop as well as the post-office; but the supplyof books corresponded exactly to the lack of demand for them, and herchief trade was in nick-nacks, from marbles and money-boxes up toconcertinas. If he found the post-mistress in an amiable mood, whichwas only now and then, the caller led up craftily to the object ofhis visit. Having discussed the weather and the potato-disease, heexplained that his sister Mary, whom Lizzie would remember, had marrieda fishmonger in Dundee. The fishmonger had lately started on himselfand was doing well. They had four children. The youngest had had asevere attack of measles. No news had been got of Mary for twelvemonths; and Annie, his other sister, who lived in Thrums, had been athim of late for not writing. So he had written a few lines; and, infact, he had the letter with him. The letter was then produced, andexamined by the postmistress. If the address was in the schoolmaster'shandwriting, she professed her inability to read it. Was this a _t_or an _l_ or an _i?_ was that a _b_ or a _d?_ This was a cruelrevenge on Lizzie's part; for the sender of the letter wascompletely at her mercy. The school-master's name being tabooed inher presence, he was unable to explain that the writing was not hisown; and as for deciding between the _t_'s and _l_'s, he could not do it. Eventually he would be directed to put the letter into the box. Theywould do their best with it, Lizzie said, but in a voice that suggestedhow little hope she had of her efforts to decipher it proving successful. 

There was an opinion among some of the people that the letter shouldnot be stamped by the sender. The proper thing to do was to drop apenny for the stamp into the box along with the letter, and thenLizzie would see that it was all right. Lizzie's acquaintance withthe handwriting of every person in the place who could write gaveher a great advantage. You would perhaps drop into her shop some dayto make a purchase, when she would calmly produce a letter you hadposted several days before. In explanation she would tell you thatyou had not put a stamp on it, or that she suspected there was moneyin it, or that you had addressed it to the wrong place. I rememberan old man, a relative of my own, who happened for once in his lifeto have several letters to post at one time. The circumstance was soout of the common that he considered it only reasonable to makeLizzie a small present. 

Perhaps the post-mistress was belied; but if she did not "steam" theletters and confide their titbits to favored friends of her own sex, it is difficult to see how all the gossip got out. The school-masteronce played an unmanly trick on her, with the view of catching herin the act. He was a bachelor who had long been given up by all themaids in the town. One day, however, he wrote a letter to animaginary lady in the county-town, asking her to be his, and goinginto full particulars about his income, his age, and his prospects. A male friend in the secret, at the other end, was to reply, in alady's handwriting, accepting him, and also giving personalparticulars. The first letter was written; and an answer arrived indue course--two days, the school-master said, after date. No otherperson knew of this scheme for the undoing of the post-mistress, yetin a very short time the school-master's coming marriage was thetalk of Thrums. Everybody became suddenly aware of the lady's name, of her abode, and of the sum of money she was to bring her husband. It was even noised abroad that the school-master had represented hisage as a good ten years less than it was. Then the school-masterdivulged everything. To his mortification, he was not quitebelieved. All the proof he could bring forward to support his storywas this: that time would show whether he got married or not. Foolish man! this argument was met by another, which was accepted atonce. The lady had jilted the school-master. Whether this explanationcame from the post-office, who shall say? But so long as he lived theschool-master was twitted about the lady who threw him over. He tookhis revenge in two ways. He wrote and posted letters exceedinglyabusive of the post-mistress. The matter might be libellous; but then, as he pointed out, she would incriminate herself if she "brought himup" about it. Probably Lizzie felt his other insult more. By publishinghis suspicions of her on every possible occasion he got a few people toseal their letters. So bitter was his feeling against her that he waseven willing to supply the wax. 

They know all about post-offices in Thrums now, and even jeer at thetelegraph-boy's uniform. In the old days they gathered round himwhen he was seen in the street, and escorted him to his destinationin triumph. That, too, was after Lizzie had gone the way of all theearth. But perhaps they are not even yet as knowing as they thinkthemselves. I was told the other day that one of them took out apostal order, meaning to send the money to a relative, and kept theorder as a receipt. 

I have said that the town is sometimes full of snow. One frostySaturday, seven years ago, I trudged into it from the school-house, and on the Monday morning we could not see Thrums anywhere. 

I was in one of the proud two-storied houses in the place, and couldhave shaken hands with my friends without from the upper windows. Toget out of doors you had to walk upstairs. The outlook was a sea ofsnow fading into white hills and sky, with the quarry standing outred and ragged to the right like a rock in the ocean. The Auld Lichtmanse was gone, but had left its garden-trees behind, their leanbranches soft with snow. Roofs were humps in the white blanket. Thespire of the Established Kirk stood up cold and stiff, like amonument to the buried inhabitants. 

Those of the natives who had taken the precaution of conveyingspades into their houses the night before, which is my plan at theschool-house, dug themselves out. They hobbled cautiously over thesnow, sometimes sinking into it to their knees, when they stoodstill and slowly took in the situation. It had been snowing more orless for a week, but in a commonplace kind of way, and they had goneto bed thinking all was well. This night the snow must have fallenas if the heavens had opened up, determined to shake themselves freeof it for ever. 

The man who first came to himself and saw what was to be done wasyoung Henders Ramsay. Henders had no fixed occupation, being but an"orra man" about the place, and the best thing known of him is thathis mother's sister was a Baptist. He feared God, man, nor theminister; and all the learning he had was obtained from assiduousstudy of a grocer's window. But for one brief day he had things hisown way in the town, or, speaking strictly, on the top of it. With aspade, a broom, and a pickaxe, which sat lightly on his broadshoulders (he was not even back-bent, and that showed him norespectable weaver), Henders delved his way to the nearest house, which formed one of a row, and addressed the inmates down thechimney. They had already been clearing it at the other end, or hiswords would have been choked. "You're snawed up, Davit, " criedHenders, in a voice that was entirely business-like; "hae ye aspade?" A conversation ensued up and down this unusual channel ofcommunication. The unlucky householder, taking no thought of themorrow, was without a spade. But if Henders would clear away thesnow from his door he would be "varra obleeged. " Henders, however, had to come to terms first. "The chairge is saxpence, Davit, " heshouted. Then a haggling ensued. Henders must be neighborly. A plateof broth, now--or, say, twopence. But Henders was obdurate. "I'senae time to argy-bargy wi' ye, Davit. Gin ye're no willin' to saysaxpence, I'm aff to Will'um Pyatt's. He's buried too. " So thevictim had to make up his mind to one of two things: he must eithersay saxpence or remain where he was. 

If Henders was "promised, " he took good care that no snowed-upinhabitant should perjure himself. He made his way to a windowfirst, and, clearing the snow from the top of it, pointed out thathe could not conscientiously proceed further until the debt had beenpaid. "Money doon, " he cried, as soon as he reached a pane of glass;or, "Come awa wi' my saxpence noo. "

The belief that this day had not come to Henders unexpectedly wasborne out by the method of the crafty callant. His charges variedfrom sixpence to half-a-crown, according to the wealth and status ofhis victims; and when, later on, there were rivals in the snow, hehad the discrimination to reduce his minimum fee to threepence. Hehad the honor of digging out three ministers at one shilling, oneand threepence, and two shillings respectively. 

Half a dozen times within the next fortnight the town was re-buriedin snow. This generally happened in the night-time; but theinhabitants were not to be caught unprepared again. Spades stoodready to their hands in the morning, and they fought their way aboveground without Henders Ramsay's assistance. To clear the snow fromthe narrow wynds and pends, however, was a task not to be attempted;and the Auld Lichts, at least, rested content when enough light gotinto their workshops to let them see where their looms stood. Wadingthrough beds of snow they did not much mind; but they wondered whatwould happen to their houses when the thaw came. 

The thaw was slow in coming. Snow during the night and severaldegrees of frost by day were what Thrums began to accept as arevised order of nature. Vainly the Thrums doctor, whose practiceextends into the glens, made repeated attempts to reach his distantpatients, twice driving so far into the dreary waste that he couldneither go on nor turn back. A ploughman who contrived to gallop tenmiles for him did not get home for a week. Between the town, whichis nowadays an agricultural centre of some importance, and theoutlying farms communication was cut off for a month; and I heardsubsequently of one farmer who did not see a human being, unconnectedwith his own farm, for seven weeks. The school-house, which I managedto reach only two days behind time, was closed for a fortnight, andeven in Thrums there was only a sprinkling of scholars. 

On Sundays the feeling between the different denominations ran high, and the middling good folk who did not go to church counted thosewho did. In the Established Church there was a sparse gathering, whowaited in vain for the minister. After a time it got abroad that aflag of distress was flying from the manse, and then they saw thatthe minister was storm-stayed. An office-bearer offered to conductservice; but the others present thought they had done their duty andwent home. The U. P. Bell did not ring at all, and the kirk-gateswere not opened. The Free Kirk did bravely, however. The attendancein the forenoon amounted to seven, including the minister; but inthe afternoon there was a turn-out of upward of fifty. How muchdenominational competition had to do with this, none can say; butthe general opinion was that this muster to afternoon service was apiece of vainglory. Next Sunday all the kirks were on their mettle, and, though the snow was drifting the whole day, services weregeneral. It was felt that after the action of the Free Kirk theEstablished and the U. P. 's must show what they too were capable of. So, when, the bells rang-at eleven o'clock and two, church-goersbegan to pour out of every close. If I remember aright, the victorylay with, the U. P. 's by two women and a boy. Of course the AuldLichts mustered in as great force as ever. The other kirks neverdreamed of competing with them. What was regarded as a judgment onthe Free Kirk for its boastfulness of spirit on the preceding Sundayhappened during the forenoon. While the service was taking place ahuge clod of snow slipped from the roof and fell right against thechurch door. It was some time before the prisoners could make uptheir minds to leave by the windows. What the Auld Lichts would havedone in a similar predicament I cannot even conjecture. 

That was the first warning of the thaw. It froze again; there wasmore snow; the thaw began in earnest; and then the streets were asight to see. There was no traffic to turn the snow to slush, and, where it had not been piled up in walls a few feet from the houses, it remained in the narrow ways till it became a lake. It tried toescape through doorways, when it sank, slowly into the floors. Gentle breezes created a ripple on its surface, and strong windslifted it into the air and flung it against the houses. Itundermined the heaps of clotted snow till they tottered likeicebergs and fell to pieces. Men made their way through, it onstilts. Had a frost followed, the result would have been appalling;but there was no more frost that winter. A fortnight passed beforethe place looked itself again, and even then congealed snow stooddoggedly in the streets, while the country roads were like newlyploughed fields after rain. The heat from large fires soonpenetrated through roofs of slate and thatch; and it was quite acommon thing for a man to be flattened to the ground by a slitheringof snow from above just as he opened his door. But it had seldommore than ten feet to fall. Most interesting of all was the novelsensation experienced as Thrums began to assume its familiar aspect, and objects so long buried that they had been half forgotten cameback to view and use. 

Storm-stead shows used to emphasize the severity of a Thrums winter. As the name indicates, these were gatherings of travelling booths inthe winter-time. Half a century ago the country was overrun byitinerant showmen, who went their different ways in summer, butformed little colonies in the cold weather, when they pitched theirtents in any empty field or disused quarry, and huddled together forthe sake of warmth, not that they got much of it. Not more than fivewinters ago we had a storm-stead show on a small scale; but nowadaysthe farmers are less willing to give these wanderers a camping-place, and the people are less easily drawn to the entertainments provided, by fife and drum. The colony hung together until it was starved out, when it trailed itself elsewhere. I have often seen it forming. Thefirst arrival would be what was popularly known as "Sam'l Mann'sTumbling-Booth, " with its tumblers, jugglers, sword-swallowers, andbalancers. This travelling show visited us regularly twice a year:once in summer for the Muckle Friday, when the performers were gayand stout, and even the horses had flesh on their bones; and againin the "back-end" of the year, when cold and hunger had taken theblood from their faces, and the scraggy dogs that whined at theirside were lashed for licking the paint off the caravans. While thestorm-stead show was in the vicinity the villages suffered from aninvasion of these dogs. Nothing told more truly the dreadful tale ofthe showman's life in winter. Sam'l Mann's was a big show, and halfa dozen smaller ones, most of which were familiar to us, crawled inits wake. Others heard of its whereabouts and came in from distantparts. There was the well-known Gubbins with his "A' the World in aBox, " a halfpenny peep-show, in which all the world was representedby Joseph and his Brethren (with pit and coat), the bombardment ofCopenhagen, the Battle of the Nile, Daniel in the Den of Lions, andMount Etna in eruption. "Aunty Maggy's Whirligig" could be enjoyedon payment of an old pair of boots, a collection of rags, or thelike. Besides these and other shows, there were the wanderingminstrels, most of whom were "Waterloo veterans" wanting arms or aleg. I remember one whose arms had been "smashed by a thunderbolt atJamaica. " Queer, bent old dames, who superintended "lucky bags" ortold fortunes, supplied the uncanny element, but hesitated to callthemselves witches, for there can still be seen near Thrums the poolwhere these unfortunates used to be drowned, and in the session bookof the Glen Quharity kirk can be read an old minute announcing thaton a certain Sabbath there was no preaching because "the ministerwas away at the burning of a witch. " To the storm-stead shows camethe gypsies in great numbers. Claypots (which is a corruption ofClaypits) was their headquarters near Thrums, and it is still sacredto their memory. It was a clachan of miserable little huts builtentirely of clay from the dreary and sticky pit in which they hadbeen flung together. A shapeless hole on one side was the doorway, and a little hole, stuffed with straw in winter, the window. Someof the remnants of these hovels still stand. Their occupants, thoughthey went by the name of gypsies among themselves, were known to theweavers as the Claypots beggars; and their King was Jimmy Pawse. Hisregal dignity gave Jimmy the right to seek alms first when he choseto do so; thus he got the cream of a place before his subjects setto work. He was rather foppish in his dress; generally affecting asuit of gray cloth with showy metal buttons on it, and a broadblue bonnet. His wife was a little body like himself; and when theywent a-begging, Jimmy with a meal-bag for alms on his back, shealways took her husband's arm. Jimmy was the legal adviser of hissubjects; his decision was considered final on all questions, andhe guided them in their courtships as well as on their death-beds. He christened their children and officiated at their weddings, marrying them over the tongs. 

The storm-stead show attracted old and young--to looking on from theoutside. In the day-time the wagons and tents presented a drearyappearance, sunk in snow, the dogs shivering between the wheels, andbut little other sign of life visible. When dusk came the lightswere lit, and the drummer and fifer from the booth of tumblers weresent into the town to entice an audience. They marched quicklythrough, the nipping, windy streets, and then returned with two orthree score of men, women, and children, plunging through the snowor mud at their heavy heels. It was Orpheus fallen from his highestate. What a mockery the glare of the lamps and the capers of themountebanks were, and how satisfied were we to enjoy it all withoutgoing inside. I hear the "Waterloo veterans" still, and remembertheir patriotic outbursts:

 On the sixteenth day of June, brave boys, while cannon loud did roar, We being short of cavalry they pressed on us full sore; But British steel soon made them yield, though our numbers was but few, And death or victory was the word on the plains of Waterloo. 

The storm-stead shows often found it easier to sink to rest in afield than to leave it. For weeks at a time they were snowed up, sufficiently to prevent any one from Thrums going near them, thoughnot sufficiently to keep the pallid mummers indoors. That would inmany cases have meant starvation. They managed to fight their waythrough storm and snowdrift to the high road and thence to the town, where they got meal and sometimes broth. The tumblers and jugglersused occasionally to hire an out-house in the town at these times--youmay be sure they did not pay for it in advance--and give performancesthere. It is a curious thing, but true, that our herd-boys and otherswere sometimes struck with the stage-fever. Thrums lost boys to theshow-men even in winter. 

On the whole, the farmers and the people generally were wonderfullylong-suffering with these wanderers, who I believe were more honestthan was to be expected. They stole, certainly; but seldom did theysteal anything more valuable than turnips. Sam'l Mann himselfflushed proudly over the effect his show once had on an iratefarmer. The farmer appeared in the encampment, whip in hand andfurious. They must get off his land before nightfall. The craftyshowman, however, prevailed upon him to take a look at the acrobats, and he enjoyed the performance so much that he offered to let themstay until the end of the week. Before that time came there was sucha fall of snow that departure was out of the question; and it is tothe farmer's credit that he sent Sam'l a bag of meal to tide him andhis actors over the storm. 

There were times when the showmen made a tour of the bothies, wherethey slung their poles and ropes and gave their poor performances toaudiences that were not critical. The bothy being strictly the"man's" castle, the farmer never interfered; indeed, he wassometimes glad to see the show. Every other weaver in Thrums used tohave a son a ploughman, and it was the men from the bothies whofilled the square on the muckly. "Hands" are not huddled togethernowadays in squalid barns more like cattle than men and women, butbothies in the neighborhood of Thrums are not yet things of thepast. Many a ploughman delves his way to and from them still in allweathers, when the snow is on the ground; at the time of "hairst, "and when the turnip "shaws" have just forced themselves through theearth, looking like straight rows of green needles. Here is apicture of a bothy of to-day that I visited recently. Over the doorthere is a waterspout that has given way, and as I entered I got arush of rain down my neck. The passage was so small that one couldeasily have stepped from the doorway on to the ladder standingagainst the wall, which was there in lieu of a staircase. "Upstairs"was a mere garret, where a man could not stand erect even in thecentre. It was entered by a square hole in the ceiling, at presentclosed by a clap-door in no way dissimilar to the trap-doors on atheatre stage. I climbed into this garret, which is at present usedas a store-room for agricultural odds and ends. At harvest-time, however, it is inhabited--full to overflowing. A few decades ago asmany as fifty laborers engaged for the harvest had to be housed inthe farm out-houses on beds of straw. There was no help for it, andmen and women had to congregate in these barns together. Up as earlyas five in the morning, they were generally dead tired by night;and, miserable though this system of herding them together was, theytook it like stoics, and their very number served as a moralsafeguard. Nowadays the harvest is gathered in so quickly, andmachinery does so much that used to be done by hand, that thiscrowding of laborers together, which was the bothy system at itsworst, is nothing like what it was. As many as six or eight men, however, are put up in the garret referred to during "hairst"-time, and the female laborers have to make the best of it in the barn. There is no doubt that on many farms the two sexes have still atthis busy time to herd together even at night. 

The bothy was but scantily furnished, though it consisted of tworooms. In the one, which was used almost solely as a sleepingapartment, there was no furniture to speak of, beyond two closetbeds, and its bumpy earthen floor gave it a cheerless look. Theother, which had a single bed, was floored with wood. It was notbadly lit by two very small windows that faced each other, and, besides several stools, there was a long form against one of thewalls. A bright fire of peat and coal--nothing in the world makessuch a cheerful red fire as this combination--burned beneath a bigkettle ("boiler" they called it), and there was a "press" orcupboard containing a fair assortment of cooking utensils. Of thesesome belonged to the bothy, while others were the private propertyof the tenants. A tin "pan" and "pitcher" of water stood near thedoor, and the table in the middle of the room was covered withoilcloth. 

Four men and a boy inhabited this bothy, and the rain had driventhem all indoors. In better weather they spend the leisure of theevening at the game of quoits, which is the standard pastime amongScottish ploughmen. They fish the neighboring streams, too, and haveburn-trout for supper several times a week. When I entered, two ofthem were sitting by the fire playing draughts, or, as they calledit, "the dam-brod. " The dam-brod is the Scottish laborer's billiards;and he often attains to a remarkable proficiency at the game. Wylie, the champion draught-player, was once a herd-boy; and wonderfulstories are current in all bothies of the times when his mastercalled him into the farm-parlor to show his skill. A third man, whoseemed the elder by quite twenty years, was at the window reading anewspaper; and I got no shock when I saw that it was the _SaturdayReview_, which he and a laborer on an adjoining farm took in weeklybetween them. There was a copy of a local newspaper--the _People'sJournal_--also lying about, and some books, including one ofDarwin's. These were all the property of this man, however, who didthe reading for the bothy. 

They did all the cooking for themselves, living largely on milk. Inthe old days, which the senior could remember, porridge was souniversally the morning meal that they called it by that nameinstead of breakfast. They still breakfast on porridge, but oftentake tea "above it. " Generally milk is taken with the porridge; but"porter" or stout in a bowl is no uncommon substitute. Potatoes attwelve o'clock--seldom "brose" nowadays--are the staple dinner dish, and the tinned meats have become very popular. There are bothieswhere each man makes his own food; but of course the more satisfactoryplan is for them to club together. Sometimes they get their food inthe farm-kitchen; but this is only when there are few of them and thefarmer and his family do not think it beneath them to dine with themen. Broth, too, may be made in the kitchen and sent down to the bothy. At harvest time the workers take their food in the fields, when greatquantities of milk are provided. There is very little beer drunk, andwhiskey is only consumed in privacy. 

Life in the bothies is not, I should say, so lonely as life at theschool-house, for the hands have at least each other's company. Thehawker visits them frequently still, though the itinerant tailor, once a familiar figure, has almost vanished. Their great place ofcongregating is still some country smiddy, which is also theirfrequent meeting-place when bent on black-fishing. The flare of theblack-fisher's torch still attracts salmon to their death in therivers near Thrums; and you may hear in the glens on a dark nightthe rattle of the spears on the wet stones. Twenty or thirty yearsago, however, the sport was much more common. After the farmer hadgone to bed, some half-dozen ploughmen and a few other poachers fromThrums would set out for the meeting-place. 

The smithy on these occasions must have been a weird sight; thoughone did not mark that at the time. The poacher crept from thedarkness into the glaring smithy light; for in country parts theanvil might sometimes be heard clanging at all hours of the night. As a rule, every face was blackened; and it was this, I suppose, rather than the fact that dark nights were chosen, that gave thegangs the name of black-fishers. Other disguises were resorted to;one of the commonest being to change clothes or to turn yourcorduroys outside in. The country-folk of those days were moresuperstitious than they are now, and it did not take much to turnthe black-fishers back. There was not a barn or byre in the districtthat had not its horseshoe over the door. Another popular device forfrightening away witches and fairies was to hang bunches of garlicabout the farms. I have known a black-fishing expedition stoppedbecause a "yellow yite, " or yellow-hammer, hovered round the gangwhen they were setting out. Still more ominous was the "péat" whenit appeared with one or three companions. An old rhyme about thisbird runs--"One is joy, two is grief, three's a bridal, four isdeath. " Such snatches of superstition are still to be heard amidstthe gossip of a north-country smithy. 

Each black-fisher brought his own spear and torch, both more or lesshome-made. The spears were in many cases "gully-knives, " fastened tostaves with twine and resin, called "rozet. " The torches were veryrough-and-ready things--rope and tar, or even rotten roots dug frombroken trees--in fact, anything that would flare. The black-fishersseldom journeyed far from home, confining themselves to the riverswithin a radius of three or four miles. There were many reasons forthis: one of them being that the hands had to be at their work onthe farm by five o'clock in the morning: another, that so theypoached and let poach. Except when in spate, the river I speciallyrefer to offered no attractions to the black-fishers. Heavy rains, however, swell it much more quickly than most rivers into a turbulentrush of water; the part of it affected by the black-fishers beingbanked in with rocks that prevent the water's spreading. Above theserocks, again, are heavy green banks, from which stunted trees growaslant across the river. The effect is fearsome at some points wherethe trees run into each other, as it were, from opposite banks. However, the black-fishers thought nothing of these things. Theytook a turnip lantern with them--that is, a lantern hollowed out ofa turnip, with a piece of candle inside--but no lights were shownon the road. Every one knew his way to the river blindfold; so thatthe darker the night the better. On reaching the water there was apause. One or two of the gang climbed the banks to discover if anybailiffs were on the watch; while the others sat down, and with thehelp of the turnip lantern "busked" their spears; in other words, fastened on the steel--or, it might be, merely pieces of rusty ironsharpened into a point at home--to the staves. Some had them buskedbefore they set out, but that was not considered prudent; for ofcourse there was always a risk of meeting spoil-sports on the way, to whom the spears would tell a tale that could not be learned fromordinary staves. Nevertheless little time was lost. Five or six ofthe gang waded into the water, torch in one hand and spear in theother; and the object now was to catch some salmon with the leastpossible delay, and hurry away. Windy nights were good for the sport, and I can still see the river lit up with the lumps of light that atorch makes in a high wind. The torches, of course, were used toattract the fish, which came swimming to the sheen, and were thenspeared. As little noise as possible was made; but though the menbit their lips instead of crying out when they missed their fish, there was a continuous ring of their weapons on the stones, and everyirrepressible imprecation was echoed up and down the black glen. Twoor three of the gang were told off to land the salmon, and they hadto work smartly and deftly. They kept by the side of the spears-man, and the moment he struck a fish they grabbed at it with their hands. When the spear had a barb there was less chance of the fish's beinglost; but often this was not the case, and probably not more thantwo-thirds of the salmon speared were got safely to the bank. Thetakes of course varied; sometimes, indeed, the black-fishers returnedhome empty-handed. 

Encounters with the bailiffs were not infrequent, though they seldomtook place at the water's edge. When the poachers were caught in theact, and had their blood up with the excitement of the sport, theywere ugly customers. Spears were used and heads were broken. Struggleseven took place in the water, when there was always a chance ofsomebody's being drowned. Where the bailiffs gave the black-fishers anopportunity of escaping without a fight it was nearly always taken;the booty being left behind. As a rule, when the "water watchers, " asthe bailiffs were sometimes called, had an inkling of what was to takeplace, they reinforced themselves with a constable or two and waitedon the road to catch the poachers on their way home. One black-fisher, a noted character, was nicknamed the "Deil o' Glen Quharity. " He wassaid to have gone to the houses of the bailiffs and offered to sellthem the fish stolen from the streams over which they kept guard. The"Deil" was never imprisoned--partly, perhaps, because he was tooeccentric to be taken seriously. 

CHAPTER III. 

THE AULD LICHT KIRK. 

One Sabbath day in the beginning of the century the Auld Licht ministerat Thrums walked out of his battered, ramshackle, earthen-floored kirkwith a following and never returned. The last words he uttered in itwere: "Follow me to the commonty, all you persons who want to hear theWord of God properly preached; and James Duphie and his two sons willanswer for this on the Day of Judgment. " The congregation, whichbelonged to the body who seceded from the Established Church a hundredand fifty years ago, had split, and as the New Lights (now the U. P. 's)were in the majority, the Old Lights, with the minister at their head, had to retire to the commonty (or common) and hold service in the openair until they had saved up money for a church. They kept possession, however, of the white manse among the trees. Their kirk has but acluster of members now, most of them old and done, but each is equalto a dozen ordinary churchgoers, and there have been men and womenamong them on whom memory loves to linger. For forty years they havebeen dying out, but their cold, stiff pews still echo the Psalms ofDavid, and the Auld Licht kirk will remain open so long as it has onemember and a minister. 

The church stands round the corner from the square, with only alarge door to distinguish it from the other buildings in the shortstreet. Children who want to do a brave thing hit this door withtheir fists, when there is no one near, and then run away scared. The door, however, is sacred to the memory of a white-haired oldlady who, not so long ago, used to march out of the kirk and remainon the pavement until the psalm which had just been given out wassung. Of Thrums' pavement it may here be said that when you come, even to this day, to a level slab you will feel reluctant to leaveit. The old lady was Mistress (which is Miss) Tibbie McQuhatty, andshe nearly split the Auld Licht kirk over "run line. " Thisconspicuous innovation was introduced by Mr. Dishart, the minister, when he was young and audacious. The old, reverent custom in thekirk was for the precentor to read out the psalm a line at a time. Having then sung that line he read out the next one, led the singingof it, and so worked his way on to line three. Where run line holds, however, the psalms is read out first, and forthwith sung. This isnot only a flighty way of doing things, which may lead to greaterscandals, but has its practical disadvantages, for the precentoralways starts singing in advance of the congregation (Auld Lichtsnever being able to begin to do anything all at once), and, increasing the distance with every line, leaves them hopelesslybehind at the finish. Miss McQuhatty protested against this change, as meeting the devil half way, but the minister carried his point, and ever after that she rushed ostentatiously from the church themoment a psalm was given out, and remained behind the door until thesinging was finished, when she returned, with a rustle, to her seat. Run line had on her the effect of the reading of the Riot Act. Oncesome men, capable of anything, held the door from the outside, andthe congregation heard Tibbie rampaging in the passage. Burstinginto the kirk she called the office-bearers to her assistance, whereupon the minister in miniature raised his voice and demandedthe why and wherefore of the ungodly disturbance. Great was thehubbub, but the door was fast, and a compromise had to be arrivedat. The old lady consented for once to stand in the passage, but notwithout pressing her hands to her ears. You may smile at Tibbie, butah! I know what she was at a sick bedside. I have seen her when thehard look had gone from her eyes, and it would ill become me tosmile too. 

As with all the churches in Thrums, care had been taken to make theAuld Licht one much too large. The stair to the "laft" or gallery, which was originally little more than ladder, is ready for you assoon as you enter the doorway, but it is best to sit in the body ofthe kirk. The plate for collections is inside the church, so thatthe whole congregation can give a guess at what you give. If it issomething very stingy or very liberal, all Thrums knows of it withina few hours; indeed, this holds good of all the churches, especiallyperhaps of the Free one, which has been called the bawbee kirk, because so many halfpennies find their way into the plate. OnSaturday nights the Thrums shops are besieged for coppers byhousewives of all denominations, who would as soon think of droppinga threepenny bit into the plate as of giving nothing. Tammy Todd hada curious way of tipping his penny into the Auld Licht plate whilestill keeping his hand to his side. He did it much as a boy fires amarble, and there was quite a talk in the congregation the firsttime he missed. A devout plan was to carry your penny in your handall the way to church, but to appear to take it out of your pocketon entering, and some plumped it down noisily like men paying theirway. I believe old Snecky Hobart, who was a canty stock butobstinate, once dropped a penny into the plate and took out ahalfpenny as change, but the only untoward thing that happened tothe plate was once when the lassie from the farm of Curly Bogcapsized it in passing. Mr. Dishart, who was always a ready man, introduced something into his sermon that day about women's dress, which every one hoped Christy Lundy, the lassie in question, wouldremember. Nevertheless, the minister sometimes came to a sudden stophimself when passing from the vestry to the pulpit. The passagebeing narrow, his rigging would catch in a pew as he sailed down theaisle. Even then, however, Mr. Dishart remembered that he was not asother men. 

White is not a religious color, and the walls of the kirk were of adull gray. A cushion was allowed to the manse pew, but merely as asymbol of office, and this was the only pew in the church that had adoor. It was and is the pew nearest to the pulpit on the minister'sright, and one day it contained a bonnet, which Mr. Dishart'spredecessor preached at for one hour and ten minutes. From thepulpit, which was swaddled in black, the minister had a fine sweepof all the congregation except those in the back pews downstairs, who were lost in the shadow of the laft. Here sat Whinny Webster, socalled because, having an inexplicable passion against them, hedevoted his life to the extermination of whins. Whinny for years atepeppermint lozenges with impunity in his back seat, safe in thecertainty that the minister, however much he might try, could notpossibly see him. But his day came. One afternoon the kirk smelt ofpeppermints, and Mr. Dishart could rebuke no one, for the defaulterwas not in sight. Whinny's cheek was working up and down in quietenjoyment of its lozenge, when he started, noticing that thepreaching had stopped. Then he heard a sepulchral voice say "CharlesWebster!" Whinny's eyes turned to the pulpit, only part of which wasvisible to him, and to his horror they encountered the minister'shead coming down the stairs. This took place after I had ceased toattend the Auld Licht kirk regularly; but I am told that as Whinnygave one wild scream the peppermint dropped from his mouth. Theminister had got him by leaning over the pulpit door until, had hegiven himself only another inch, his feet would have gone into theair. As for Whinny he became a God-fearing man. 

The most uncanny thing about the kirk was the precentor's boxbeneath the pulpit. Three Auld Licht ministers I have known, but Ican only conceive one precentor. Lang Tammas' box was much too smallfor him. Since his disappearance from Thrums I believe they havepaid him the compliment of enlarging it for a smaller man, no doubtwith the feeling that Tammas alone could look like a Christian init. Like the whole congregation, of course, he had to stand duringthe prayers--the first of which averaged half an hour in length. Ifhe stood erect his head and shoulders vanished beneath funerealtrappings, when he seemed decapitated, and if he stretched his neckthe pulpit tottered. He looked like the pillar on which it rested, or he balanced it on his head like a baker's tray. Sometimes heleaned forward as reverently as he could, and then, with his long, lean arms dangling over the side of his box, he might have been asuit of "blacks" hung up to dry. Once I was talking with Cree Queeryin a sober, respectable manner, when all at once a light broke outon his face. I asked him what he was laughing at, and he said it wasat Lang Tammas. He got grave again when I asked him what there wasin Lang Tammas to smile at, and admitted that he could not tell me. However, I have always been of opinion that the thought of theprecentor in his box gave Cree a fleeting sense of humor. 

Tammas and Hendry Munn were the two paid officials of the church, Hendry being kirk-officer; but poverty was among the few points theyhad in common. The precentor was a cobbler, though he never knew it, shoemaker being the name in those parts, and his dwelling-room wasalso his workshop. There he sat in his "brot, " or apron, from earlymorning to far on to midnight, and contrived to make his six oreight shillings a week. I have often sat with him in the darknessthat his "cruizey" lamp could not pierce, while his mutterings tohimself of "ay, ay, yes, umpha, oh ay, ay man, " came as regularlyand monotonously as the tick of his "wag-at-the-wa'" clock. Hendryand he were paid no fixed sum for their services in the Auld Lichtkirk, but once a year there was a collection for each of them, andso they jogged along. Though not the only kirk-officer of my timeHendry made the most lasting impression. He was, I think, the onlyman in Thrums who did not quake when the minister looked at him. Awild story, never authenticated, says that Hendry once offered Mr. Dishart a snuff from his mull. In the streets Lang Tammas was morestern and dreaded by evil-doers, but Hendry had first place in thekirk. One of his duties was to precede the minister from thesession-house to the pulpit and open the door for him. Having shutMr. Dishart in he strolled away to his seat. When a strange ministerpreached, Hendry was, if possible, still more at his ease. This willnot be believed, but I have seen him give the pulpit-door on theseoccasions a fling to with his feet. However ill an ordinary memberof the congregation might become in the kirk he sat on till theservice ended, but Hendry would wander to the door and shut it if henoticed that the wind was playing irreverent tricks with the pagesof Bibles, and proof could still be brought forward that he wouldstop deliberately in the aisle to lift up a piece of paper, say, that had floated there. After the first psalm had been sung it wasHendry's part to lift up the plate and carry its tinkling contentsto the session-house. On the greatest occasions he remained so calm, so indifferent, so expressionless, that he might have been presentthe night before at a rehearsal. 

When there was preaching at night the church was lit by tallowcandles, which also gave out all the artificial heat provided. Twocandles stood on each side of the pulpit, and others were scatteredover the church, some of them fixed into holes on rough brackets, and some merely sticking in their own grease on the pews. Hendrysuperintended the lighting of the candles, and frequently hobbledthrough the church to snuff them. Mr. Dishart was a man who could doanything except snuff a candle, but when he stopped in his sermon todo that he as often as not knocked the candle over. In vain hesought to refix it in its proper place, and then all eyes turned toHendry. As coolly as though he were in a public hall or place ofentertainment, the kirk-officer arose and, mounting the stair, tookthe candle from the minister's reluctant hands and put it right. Then he returned to his seat, not apparently puffed up, yet perhapssatisfied with himself; while Mr. Dishart, glaring after him to seeif he was carrying his head high, resumed his wordy way. 

Never was there a man more uncomfortably loved than Mr. Dishart. Easie Haggart, his maid-servant, reproved him at the breakfasttable. Lang Tammas and Sam'l Mealmaker crouched for five successiveSabbath nights on his manse-wall to catch him smoking (and got him). Old wives grumbled by their hearths when he did not look in todespair of their salvation. He told the maidens of his congregationnot to make an idol of him. His session saw him (from behind ahaystack) in conversation with a strange woman, and asked grimly ifhe remembered that he had a wife. Twenty were his years when he cameto Thrums, and on the very first Sabbath he knocked a board out ofthe pulpit. Before beginning his trial sermon he handed down the bigBible to the precentor, to give his arms free swing. Thecongregation, trembling with exhilaration, probed his meaning. Not asquare inch of paper, they saw, could be concealed there. Mr. Dishart had scarcely any hope for the Auld Lichts; he had none forany other denomination. Davit Lunan got behind his handkerchief tothink for a moment, and the minister was on him like a tiger. Thecall was unanimous. Davit proposed him. 

Every few years, as one might say, the Auld Licht kirk gave way andburied its minister. The congregation turned their empty pocketsinside out, and the minister departed in a farmer's cart. The scenewas not an amusing one to those who looked on at it. To the AuldLichts was then the humiliation of seeing their pulpit "supplied" onalternate Sabbaths by itinerant probationers or stickit ministers. When they were not starving themselves to support a pastor the AuldLichts were saving up for a stipend. They retired with compressedlips to their looms, and weaved and weaved till they weaved anotherminister. Without the grief of parting with one minister there couldnot have been the transport of choosing another. To have had apastor always might have made them vain-glorious. 

They were seldom longer than twelve months in making a selection, and in their haste they would have passed over Mr. Dishart and matedwith a monster. Many years have elapsed since Providence flung Mr. Watts out of the Auld Licht kirk. Mr. Watts was a probationer whowas tried before Mr. Dishart, and, though not so young as might havebeen wished, he found favor in many eyes. "Sluggard in the laft, awake!" he cried to Bell Whamond, who had forgotten herself, and itwas felt that there must be good stuff in him. A breeze from Heavenexposed him on Communion Sabbath. 

On the evening of this solemn day the door of the Auld Licht kirkwas sometimes locked, and the congregation repaired, Bible in hand, to the commonty. They had a right to this common on the CommunionSabbath, but only took advantage of it when it was believed thatmore persons intended witnessing the evening service than the kirkwould hold. On this day the attendance was always very great. 

It was the Covenanters come back to life. To the summit of the slopea wooden box was slowly hurled by Hendry Munn and others, and roundthis the congregation quietly grouped to the tinkle of the crackedAuld Licht bell. With slow, majestic tread the session advanced uponthe steep common with the little minister in their midst. He had thepeople in his hands now, and the more he squeezed them the betterthey were pleased. The travelling pulpit consisted of twocompartments, the one for the minister and the other for LangTammas, but no Auld Licht thought that it looked like a Punch andJudy puppet show. This service on the common was known as the "tentpreaching, " owing to a tent's being frequently used instead of thebox. 

Mr. Watts was conducting the service on the commonty. It was a fine, still summer evening, and loud above the whisper of the burn fromwhich the common climbs, and the labored "pechs" of the listeners, rose the preacher's voice. The Auld Lichts in their rusty blacks(they must have been a more artistic sight in the olden days of bluebonnets and knee-breeches) nodded their heads in sharp approval, forthough they could swoop down on a heretic like an eagle on carrion, they scented no prey. Even Lang Tammas, on whose nose a drop ofwater gathered when he was in his greatest fettle, thought that allwas fair and above-board. Suddenly a rush of wind tore up thecommon, and ran straight at the pulpit. It formed in a sieve, andpassed over the heads of the congregation, who felt it as a fan, andlooked up in awe. Lang Tammas, feeling himself all at once growclammy, distinctly heard the leaves of the pulpit Bible shiver. Mr. Watts' hands, outstretched to prevent a catastrophe, were blownagainst his side, and then some twenty sheets of closely writtenpaper floated into the air. There was a horrible, dead silence. Theburn was roaring now. The minister, if such he can be called, shrankback in his box, and as if they had seen it printed in letters offire on the heavens, the congregation realized that Mr. Watts, whomthey had been on the point of calling, read his sermon. He wrote itout on pages the exact size of those in the Bible, and did notscruple to fasten these into the Holy Book itself. At theatres asullen thunder of angry voices behind the scene represents a crowdin a rage, and such a low, long-drawn howl swept the common when Mr. Watts was found out. To follow a pastor who "read" seemed to theAuld Lichts like claiming heaven on false pretences. In ten minutesthe session alone, with Lang Tammas and Hendry, were on the common. They were watched by many from afar off, and (when one comes tothink of it now) looked a little curious jumping, like trout atflies, at the damning papers still fluttering in the air. Theminister was never seen in our parts again, but he is stillremembered as "Paper Watts. "

Mr. Dishart in the pulpit was the reward of his upbringing. At tenhe had entered the university. Before he was in his teens he waspractising the art of gesticulation in his father's gallery pew. From distant congregations people came to marvel at him. He wasnever more than comparatively young. So long as the pulpit trappingsof the kirk at Thrums lasted he could be seen, once he was fairlyunder way with his sermon, but dimly in a cloud of dust. Heintroduced headaches. In a grand transport of enthusiasm he onceflung his arms over the pulpit and caught Lang Tammas on theforehead. Leaning forward, with his chest on the cushions, he wouldpommel the Evil One with both hands, and then, whirling round to theleft, shake his fist at Bell Whamond's neckerchief. With a suddenjump he would fix Pete Todd's youngest boy catching flies at thelaft window. Stiffening unexpectedly, he would leap three times inthe air, and then gather himself in a corner for a fearsome spring. When he wept he seemed to be laughing, and he laughed in a paroxysmof tears. He tried to tear the devil out of the pulpit rails. Whenhe was not a teetotum he was a windmill. His pump position was themost appalling. Then he glared motionless at his admiring listeners, as if he had fallen into a trance with his arm upraised. Thehurricane broke next moment. Nanny Sutie bore up under the shadow ofthe windmill--which would have been heavier had Auld Licht ministersworn gowns--but the pump affected her to tears. She was stone-deaf. 

For the first year or more of his ministry an Auld Licht ministerwas a mouse among cats. Both in the pulpit and out of it theywatched for unsound doctrine, and when he strayed they took him bythe neck. Mr. Dishart, however, had been brought up in the true way, and seldom gave his people a chance. In time, it may be said, theygrew despondent, and settled in their uncomfortable pews with allsuspicion of lurking heresy allayed. It was only on such Sabbaths asMr. Dishart changed pulpits with another minister that they cockedtheir ears and leaned forward eagerly to snap the preacher up. 

Mr. Dishart had his trials. There was the split in the kirk, too, that comes once at least to every Auld Licht minister. He was longin marrying. The congregation were thinking of approaching him, through the medium of his servant, Easie Haggart, on the subject ofmatrimony; for a bachelor coming on for twenty-two, with an incomeof eighty pounds per annum, seemed an anomaly--when one day he tookthe canal for Edinburgh and returned with his bride. His peoplenodded their heads, but said nothing to the minister. If he did notchoose to take them into his confidence, it was no affair of theirs. That there was something queer about the marriage, however, seemedcertain. Sandy Whamond, who was a soured man after losing hiseldership, said that he believed she had been an "Englishy"--inother words, had belonged to the English Church; but it is notprobable that Mr. Dishart would have gone the length of that. Thesecret is buried in his grave. 

Easie Haggart jagged the minister sorely. She grew loquacious withyears, and when he had company would stand at the door joining inthe conversation. If the company was another minister, she wouldtake a chair and discuss Mr. Dishart's infirmities with him. TheAuld Lichts loved their minister, but they saw even more clearlythan himself the necessity for his humiliation. His wife made allher children's clothes, but Sanders Gow complained that she lookedtoo like their sister. In one week three of the children died, andon the Sabbath following it rained. Mr. Dishart preached, twicebreaking down altogether and gaping strangely round the kirk (therewas no dust flying that day), and spoke of the rain as angels' tearsfor three little girls. The Auld Lichts let it pass, but, as LangTammas said in private (for, of course, the thing was much discussedat the looms), if you materialize angels in that way, where are yougoing to stop?

It was on the fast-days that the Auld Licht kirk showed what it wascapable of, and, so to speak, left all the other churches in Thrumsfar behind. The fast came round once every summer, beginning on aThursday, when all the looms were hushed, and two services were heldin the kirk of about three hours' length each. A minister fromanother town assisted at these times, and when the service ended themembers filed in at one door and out at another, passing on theirway Mr. Dishart and his elders, who dispensed "tokens" at the footof the pulpit. Without a token, which was a metal lozenge, no onecould take the sacrament on the coming Sabbath, and many a memberhas Mr. Dishart made miserable by refusing him his token forgathering wild-flowers, say, on a Lord's Day (as testified to byanother member). Women were lost who cooked dinners on the Sabbath, or took to colored ribbons, or absented themselves from churchwithout sufficient cause. On the fast-day fists were shaken at Mr. Dishart as he walked sternly homeward, but he was undismayed. Nextday there were no services in the kirk, for Auld Lichts could notafford many holidays, but they weaved solemnly, with Saturday andthe Sabbath and Monday to think of. On Saturday service began at twoand lasted until nearly seven. Two sermons were preached, but therewas no interval. The sacrament was dispensed on the Sabbath. Nowadays the "tables" in the Auld Licht kirk are soon "served, " forthe attendance has decayed, and most of the pews in the body of thechurch are made use of. In the days of which I speak, however, thefront pews alone were hung with white, and it was in them only thesacrament was administered. As many members as could get into themdelivered up their tokens and took the first table. Then they maderoom for others, who sat in their pews awaiting their turn. Whatwith tables, the preaching, and unusually long prayers, the servicelasted from eleven to six. At half-past six a two hours' servicebegan, either in the kirk or on the common, from which no one whothought much about his immortal soul would have dared (or cared) toabsent himself. A four hours' service on the Monday, which, likethat of the Saturday, consisted of two services in one, but began ateleven instead of two, completed the programme. 

On those days, if you were a poor creature and wanted to acknowledgeit, you could leave the church for a few minutes and return to it, but the creditable thing was to sit on. Even among the childrenthere was a keen competition, fostered by their parents, to sit eachother out, and be in at the death. 

The other Thrums kirks held the sacrament at the same time, but notwith the same vehemence. As far north from the school-house asThrums is south of it, nestles the little village of Quharity, andthere the fast-day was not a day of fasting. In most cases thepeople had to go many miles to church. They drove or rode (two on ahorse), or walked in from other glens. Without "the tents, "therefore, the congregation, with a long day before them, would havebeen badly off. Sometimes one tent sufficed; at other times rivalpublicans were on the ground. The tents were those in use at thefeeing and other markets, and you could get anything inside them, from broth made in a "boiler" to the firiest whiskey. They wereplanted just outside the kirk-gate--long, low tents of dirty whitecanvas--so that when passing into the church or out of it youinhaled their odors. The congregation emerged austerely from thechurch, shaking their heads solemnly over the minister's remarks, and their feet carried them into the tent. There was no mirth, nounseemly revelry, but there was a great deal of hard drinking. Eventually the tents were done away with, but not until the serviceson the fast-days were shortened. The Auld Licht ministers were theonly ones who preached against the tents with any heart, and sincethe old dominie, my predecessor at the school-house, died, there hasnot been an Auld Licht permanently resident in the glen of Quharity. 

Perhaps nothing took it out of the Auld Licht males so much as achristening. Then alone they showed symptoms of nervousness, moreespecially after the remarkable baptism of Eppie Whamond. I couldtell of several scandals in connection with the kirk. There was, forinstance, the time when Easie Haggart saved the minister. In a fitof temporary mental derangement the misguided man had one Sabbathday, despite the entreaties of his affrighted spouse, called at thepost-office, and was on the point of reading the letter therereceived when Easie, who had slipped on her bonnet and followed him, snatched the secular thing from his hands. There was the story thatran like fire through Thrums and crushed an innocent man, to theeffect that Pete Todd had been in an Edinburgh theatre countenancingthe play-actors. Something could be made, too, of the retributionthat came to Charlie Ramsay, who woke in his pew to discover thatits other occupant, his little son Jamie, was standing on the seatdivesting himself of his clothes in presence of a horrifiedcongregation. Jamie had begun stealthily, and had very little onwhen Charlie seized him. But having my choice of scandals I preferthe christening one--the unique case of Eppie Whamond, who was bornlate on Saturday night and baptized in the kirk on the followingforenoon. 

To the casual observer the Auld Licht always looked as if he werereturning from burying a near relative. Yet when I met him hobblingdown the street, preternaturally grave and occupied, experiencetaught me that he was preparing for a christening. How the ministerwould have borne himself in the event of a member of his congregation'swanting the baptism to take place at home it is not easy to say; but Ishudder to think of the public prayers for the parents that wouldcertainly have followed. The child was carried to the kirk throughrain, or snow, or sleet, or wind; the father took his seat alone in thefront pew, under the minister's eye, and the service was prolonged faron into the afternoon. But though the references in the sermon to thatunhappy object of interest in the front pew were many and pointed, histime had not really come until the minister signed to him to advanceas far as the second step of the pulpit stairs. The nervous fatherclenched the railing in a daze, and cowered before the ministerialheckling. From warning the minister passed to exhortation, fromexhortation to admonition, from admonition to searching questioning, from questioning to prayer and wailing. When the father glanced up, there was the radiant boy in the pulpit looking as if he would liketo jump down his throat. If he hung his head the minister would ask, with a groan, whether he was unprepared; and the whole congregationwould sigh out the response that Mr. Dishart had hit it. When hereplied audibly to the minister's uncomfortable questions, a painedlook at his flippancy travelled from the pulpit all round the pews;and when he only bowed his head in answer, the minister paused sternly, and the congregation wondered what the man meant. Little wonder thatDavie Haggart took to drinking when his turn came for occupying thatfront pew. 

If wee Eppie Whamond's birth had been deferred until the beginningof the week, or humility had shown more prominently among hermother's virtues, the kirk would have been saved a painful scandal, and Sandy Whamond might have retained his eldership. Yet it was afoolish but wifely pride in her husband's official position thatturned Bell Dundas' head--a wild ambition to beat all baptismalrecord. 

Among the wives she was esteemed a poor body whose infant did notsee the inside of the kirk within a fortnight of its birth. Fortyyears ago it was an accepted superstition in Thrums that the ghostsof children who had died before they were baptized went wailing andwringing their hands round the kirk-yard at nights, and that theywould continue to do this until the crack of doom. When the AuldLicht children grew up, too, they crowed over those of their fellowswhose christening had been deferred until a comparatively late date, and the mothers who had needlessly missed a Sabbath for longafterward hung their heads. That was a good and creditable birthwhich took place early in the week, thus allowing time for suitablechristening preparations; while to be born on a Friday or a Saturdaywas to humiliate your parents, besides being an extremely ominousbeginning for yourself. Without seeking to vindicate Bell Dundas'behavior, I may note, as an act of ordinary fairness, that, beingthe leading elder's wife, she was sorely tempted. Eppie made herappearance at 9:45 on a Saturday night. 

In the hurry and skurry that ensued, Sandy escaped sadly to thesquare. His infant would be baptized eight days old--one of thelongest deferred christenings of the year. Sandy was shivering underthe clock when I met him accidentally, and took him home. But by thattime the harm had been done. Several of the congregation had beenroused from their beds to hear his lamentations, of whom the mensympathized with him, while the wives triumphed austerely over BellDundas. As I wrung poor Sandy's hand, I hardly noticed that a brightlight showed distinctly between the shutters of his kitchen-window;but the elder himself turned pale and breathed quickly. It was thenfourteen minutes past twelve. 

My heart sank within me on the following forenoon, when SandyWhamond walked, with a queer twitching face, into the front pewunder a glare of eyes from the body of the kirk and the laft. Anamazed buzz went round the church, followed by a pursing up of lipsand hurried whisperings. Evidently Sandy had been driven to itagainst his own judgment. The scene is still vivid before me: theminister suspecting no guile, and omitting the admonitory stage outof compliment to the elder's standing; Sandy's ghastly face; theproud godmother (aged twelve) with the squalling baby in her arms;the horror of the congregation to a man and woman. A slate fell fromSandy's house even as he held up the babe to the minister to receivea "droukin'" of water, and Eppie cried so vigorously that her shamedgodmother had to rush with her to the vestry. Now things are not asthey should be when an Auld Licht infant does not quietly sit outher first service. 

Bell tried for a time to carry her head high; but Sandy ceased towhistle at his loom, and the scandal was a rolling stone that soonpassed over him. Briefly it amounted to this: that a bairn bornwithin two hours of midnight on Saturday could not have been readyfor christening at the kirk next day without the breaking of theSabbath. Had the secret of the nocturnal light been mine alone allmight have been well; but Betsy Mund's evidence was irrefutable. Great had been Bell's cunning, but Betsy had outwitted her. Passingthe house on the eventful night, Betsy had observed Marget Dundas, Bell's sister, open the door and creep cautiously to the window, thechinks in the outside shutters of which she cunningly closed up with"tow. " As in a flash the disgusted Betsy saw what Bell was up to, and, removing the tow, planted herself behind the dilapidated dykeopposite and awaited events. Questioned at a special meeting of theoffice-bearers in the vestry, she admitted that the lamp wasextinguished soon after twelve o'clock, though the fire burnedbrightly all night. There had been unnecessary feasting during thenight, and six eggs were consumed before breakfast-time. Asked howshe knew this, she admitted having counted the eggshells that Margethad thrown out of doors in the morning. This, with the testimony ofthe persons from whom Sandy had sought condolence on the Saturdaynight, was the case for the prosecution. For the defence, Bellmaintained that all preparations stopped when the clock strucktwelve, and even hinted that the bairn had been born on Saturdayafternoon. But Sandy knew that he and his had got a fall. In theforenoon of the following Sabbath the minister preached from thetext, "Be sure your sin will find you out;" and in the afternoonfrom "Pride goeth before a fall. " He was grand. In the evening Sandytendered his resignation of office, which was at once accepted. Webswere behind-hand for a week, owing to the length of the prayersoffered up for Bell; and Lang Tammas ruled in Sandy's stead. 

CHAPTER IV. 

LADS AND LASSES. 

With the severe Auld Lichts the Sabbath began at six o'clock onSaturday evening. By that time the gleaming shuttle was at rest, Davie Haggart had strolled into the village from his pile of stonesin the Whunny road; Hendry Robb, the "dummy, " had sold his lastbarrowful of "rozetty (resiny) roots" for firewood; and the people, having tranquilly supped and soused their faces in their water-pails, slowly donned their Sunday clothes. This ceremony was common to all;but here divergence set in. The gray Auld Licht, to whom love was noteven a name, sat in his high-backed arm-chair by the hearth, Bible or"Pilgrim's Progress" in hand, occasionally lapsing into slumber. But--though, when they got the chance, they went willingly threetimes to the kirk--there were young men in the community so flightythat, instead of dozing at home on Saturday night, they danderedcasually into the square, and, forming into knots at the corners, talked solemnly and mysteriously of women. 

Not even, on the night preceding his wedding was an Auld Licht ever knownto stay out after ten o'clock. So weekly conclaves at street-corners cameto an end at a comparatively early hour, one Coelebs after anothershuffling silently from the square until it echoed, deserted, to thetown-house clock. The last of the gallants, gradually discovering thathe was alone, would look around him musingly, and, taking in thesituation, slowly wend his way home. On no other night of the week wasfrivolous talk about the softer sex indulged in, the Auld Lichts beingcreatures of habit, who never thought of smiling on a Monday. Longbefore they reached their teens they were earning their keep as herdsin the surrounding glens or filling "pirns" for their parents; but theywere generally on the brink of twenty before they thought seriously ofmatrimony. Up to that time they only trifled with the other sex'saffections at a distance--filling a maid's water-pails, perhaps, whenno one was looking, or carrying her wob; at the recollection of whichthey would slap their knees almost jovially on Saturday night. A wifewas expected to assist at the loom as well as to be cunning in themaking of marmalade and the firing of bannocks, and there wasconsequently some heartburning among the lads for maids of skill andmuscle. The Auld Licht, however, who meant marriage seldom loiteredin the streets. By-and-bye there came a time when the clock lookeddown through its cracked glass upon the hemmed-in square and saw himnot. His companions, gazing at each other's boots, felt thatsomething was going on, but made no remark. 

A month ago, passing through the shabby, familiar square, I brushedagainst a withered old man tottering down the street under a load ofyarn. It was piled on a wheelbarrow, which his feeble hands couldnot have raised but for the rope of yarn that supported it from hisshoulders; and though Auld Licht was written on his patient eyes, Idid not immediately recognize Jamie Whamond. Years ago Jamie was asturdy weaver and fervent lover, whom I had the right to call myfriend. Turn back the century a few decades, and we are together ona moonlight night, taking a short cut through the fields from thefarm of Craigiebuckle. Buxom were Craigiebuckle's "dochters, " andJamie was Janet's accepted suitor. It was a muddy road through dampgrass, and we picked our way silently over its ruts and pools. "I'mthinkin', " Jamie said at last, a little wistfully, "that I micht haebeen as weel wi' Chirsty. " Chirsty was Janet's sister, and Jamie hadfirst thought of her. Craigiebuckle, however, strongly advised himto take Janet instead, and he consented. Alack! heavy wobs havetaken all the grace from Janet's shoulders this many a year, thoughshe and Jamie go bravely down the hill together. Unless they passthe allotted span of life, the "poors-house" will never know them. As for bonny Chirsty, she proved a flighty thing, and married adeacon in the Established Church. The Auld Lichts groaned over herfall, Craigiebuckle hung his head, and the minister told her sternlyto go her way. But a few weeks afterward Lang Tammas, the chiefelder, was observed talking with her for an hour in Gowrie's close;and the very next Sabbath Chirsty pushed her husband in triumph intoher father's pew. The minister, though completely taken by surprise, at once referred to the stranger, in a prayer of great length, as abrand that might yet be plucked from the burning. Changing his text, he preached at him; Lang Tammas, the precentor, and the wholecongregation (Chirsty included) sang at him; and before he exactlyrealized his position he had become an Auld Licht for life. Chirsty's triumph was complete when, next week, in broad daylight, too, the minister's wife called, and (in the presence of Betsy Munn, who vouches for the truth of the story) graciously asked her to comeup to the manse on Thursday, at 4 P. M. , and drink a dish of tea. Chirsty, who knew her position, of course begged modestly to beexcused; but a coolness arose over the invitation between her andJanet--who felt slighted--that was only made up at the laying-out ofChirsty's father-in-law, to which Janet was pleasantly invited. 

When they had red up the house, the Auld Licht lassies sat in thegloaming at their doors on three-legged stools, patiently knittingstockings. To them came stiff-limbed youths who, with a "Blawy nicht, Jeanie" (to which the inevitable answer was, "It is so, Cha-rles"), rested their shoulders on the doorpost, and silently followed withtheir eyes the flashing needles. Thus the courtship began--often toripen promptly into marriage, at other times to go no farther. Thesmooth-haired maids, neat in their simple wrappers, knew they wereon their trial, and that it behoved them to be wary. They had notcompassed twenty winters without knowing that Marget Todd lost DavieHaggart because she "fittit" a black stocking with brown worsted, and that Finny's grieve turned from Bell Whamond on account of thefrivolous flowers in her bonnet: and yet Bell's prospects, as Ihappen to know, at one time looked bright and promising. Sittingover her father's peat-fire one night gossiping with him aboutfishing-flies and tackle, I noticed the grieve, who had dropped inby appointment with some ducks' eggs on which Bell's clockin' henwas to sit, performing some sleight-of-hand trick with his coat-sleeve. Craftily he jerked and twisted it, till his own photograph (a blacksmudge on white) gradually appeared to view. This he gravely slippedinto the hands of the maid of his choice, and then took his departure, apparently much relieved. Had not Bell's light-headedness driven himaway, the grieve would have soon followed up his gift with an offerof his hand. Some night Bell would have "seen him to the door, " andthey would have stared sheepishly at each other before sayinggood-night. The parting salutation given, the grieve would stillhave stood his ground, and Bell would have waited with him. At last, "Will ye hae's, Bell?" would have dropped from his half-reluctantlips; and Bell would have mumbled, "Ay, " with her thumb in her mouth. "Guid nicht to ye, Bell, " would be the next remark--"Guid nicht toye, Jeames, " the answer; the humble door would close softly, and Belland her lad would have been engaged. But, as it was, their attachmentnever got beyond the silhouette stage, from which, in the ethics ofthe Auld Lichts, a man can draw back in certain circumstances withoutloss of honor. The only really tender thing I ever heard an Auld Lichtlover say to his sweetheart was when Gowrie's brother looked softlyinto Easie Tamson's eyes and whispered, "Do you swite (sweat)?" Eventhen the effect was produced more by the loving cast in Gowrie's eyethan by the tenderness of the words themselves. 

The courtships were sometimes of long duration, but as soon as theyoung man realized that he was courting he proposed. Cases were notwanting in which he realized this for himself, but as a rule he hadto be told of it. 

There were a few instances of weddings among the Auld Lichts thatdid not take place on Friday. Betsy Munn's brother thought to asserthis two coal-carts, about which he was sinfully puffed up, bygetting married early in the week; but he was a pragmatical fecklessbody, Jamie. The foreigner from York that Finny's grieve afterdisappointing Jinny Whamond took, sought to sow the seeds of strifeby urging that Friday was an unlucky day; and I remember how theminister, who was always great in a crisis, nipped the bickering inthe bud by adducing the conclusive fact that he had been married onthe sixth day of the week himself. It was a judicious policy on Mr. Dishart's part to take vigorous action at once and insist on thesolemnization of the marriage on a Friday or not at all, for he bestkept superstition out of the congregation by branding it as heresy. Perhaps the Auld Lichts were only ignorant of the grieve's lass'theory because they had not thought of it. Friday's claims, too, were incontrovertible; for the Saturday's being a slack day gave thecouple an opportunity to put their but and ben in order, and onSabbath they had a gay day of it--three times at the kirk. Thehoneymoon over, the racket of the loom began again on the Monday. 

The natural politeness of the Allardice family gave me my invitationto Tibbie's wedding. I was taking tea and cheese early one wintryafternoon with the smith and his wife, when little Joey Todd in hisSabbath clothes peered in at the passage, and then knocked primly atthe door. Andra forgot himself, and called out to him to come in by;but Jess frowned him into silence, and, hastily donning her blackmutch, received Willie on the threshold. Both halves of the doorwere open, and the visitor had looked us over carefully beforeknocking; but he had come with the compliments of Tibbie's mother, requesting the pleasure of Jess and her man that evening to thelassie's marriage with Sam'l Todd, and the knocking at the door waspart of the ceremony. Five minutes afterward Joey returned to beg amoment of me in the passage; when I, too, got my invitation. The ladhad just received, with an expression of polite surprise, though heknew he could claim it as his right, a slice of crumblingshortbread, and taken his staid departure, when Jess cleared thetea-things off the table, remarking simply that it was a mercy wehad not got beyond the first cup. We then retired to dress. 

About six o'clock, the time announced for the ceremony, I elbowed myway through the expectant throng of men, women, and children thatalready besieged the smith's door. Shrill demands of "Toss, toss!"rent the air every time Jess' head showed on the window-blind, andAndra hoped, as I pushed open the door, "that I hadna forgotten mybawbees. " Weddings were celebrated among the Auld Lichts by showersof ha'pence, and the guests on their way to the bride's house had toscatter to the hungry rabble like housewives feeding poultry. WillieTodd, the best man, who had never come out so strong in his lifebefore, slipped through the back window, while the crowd, led on byKitty McQueen, seethed in front, and making a bolt for it to the"'Sosh, " was back in a moment with a handful of small change. "Dinnatoss ower lavishly at first, " the smith whispered me nervously, aswe followed Jess and Willie into the darkening wynd. 

The guests were packed hot and solemn in Johnny Allardice's "room:"the men anxious to surrender their seats to the ladies who happenedto be standing, but too bashful to propose it; the ham and the fishfrizzling noisily side by side but the house, and hissing out everynow and then to let all whom it might concern know that Janet Craikwas adding more water to the gravy. A better woman never lived; but, oh, the hypocrisy of the face that beamed greeting to the guests asif it had nothing to do but politely show them in, and gasped nextmoment with upraised arms over what was nearly a fall in crockery. When Janet sped to the door her "spleet new" merino dress fell, tothe pulling of a string, over her home-made petticoat, like thedrop-scene in a theatre, and rose as promptly when she returned toslice the bacon. The murmur of admiration that filled the room whenshe entered with the minister was an involuntary tribute to thespotlessness of her wrapper and a great triumph for Janet. If thereis an impression that the dress of the Auld Lichts was on alloccasions as sombre as their faces, let it be known that the bridewas but one of several in "whites, " and that Mag Munn had only atthe last moment been dissuaded from wearing flowers. The minister, the Auld Lichts congratulated themselves, disapproved of all suchdecking of the person and bowing of the head to idols; but on suchan occasion he was not expected to observe it. Bell Whamond, however, has reason for knowing that, marriages or no marriages, hedrew the line at curls. 

By-and-bye Sam'l Todd, looking a little dazed, was pushed into themiddle of the room to Tibbie's side, and the minister raised hisvoice in prayer. All eyes closed reverently, except perhaps thebridegroom's, which seemed glazed and vacant. It was an openquestion in the community whether Mr. Dishart did not miss hischance at weddings; the men shaking their heads over the comparativebrevity of the ceremony, the women worshipping him (though he neverhesitated to rebuke them when they showed it too openly) for theurbanity of his manners. At that time, however, only a minister ofsuch experience as Mr. Dishart's predecessor could lead up to amarriage in prayer without inadvertently joining the couple; and thecatechizing was mercifully brief. Another prayer followed the union;the minister waived his right to kiss the bride; every one looked atevery other one as if he had for the moment forgotten what he was onthe point of saying and found it very annoying; and Janet signedfrantically to Willie Todd, who nodded intelligently in reply, butevidently had no idea what she meant. In time Johnny Allardice, ourhost, who became more and more and doited as the night proceeded, remembered his instructions, and led the way to the kitchen, wherethe guests, having politely informed their hostess that they werenot hungry, partook of a hearty tea. Mr. Dishart presided, with thebride and bridegroom near him; but though he tried to give anagreeable turn to the conversation by describing the extensions atthe cemetery, his personality oppressed us, and we only breathedfreely when he rose to go. Yet we marvelled at his versatility. Inshaking hands with the newly married couple the minister remindedthem that it was leap-year, and wished them "three hundred andsixty-six happy and God-fearing days. "

Sam'l's station being too high for it, Tibbie did not have a pennywedding, which her thrifty mother bewailed, penny weddings startinga couple in life. I can recall nothing more characteristic of thenation from which the Auld Lichts sprang than the penny wedding, where the only revellers that were not out of pocket by it were thecouple who gave the entertainment. The more the guests ate and drankthe better, pecuniarily, for their hosts. The charge for admissionto the penny wedding (practically to the feast that followed it)varied in different districts, but with us it was generally ashilling. Perhaps the penny extra to the fiddler accounts for thename penny wedding. The ceremony having been gone through in thebride's house, there was an adjournment to a barn or otherconvenient place of meeting, where was held the nuptial feast; longwhite boards from Rob Angus' saw-mill, supported on trestles, stoodin lieu of tables; and those of the company who could not find aseat waited patiently against the wall for a vacancy. The shillinggave every guest the free run of the groaning board; but thoughfowls were plentiful, and even white bread too, little had been spenton them. The farmers of the neighborhood, who looked forward toproviding the young people with drills of potatoes for the comingwinter, made a bid for their custom by sending them a fowl gratisfor the marriage supper. It was popularly understood to be the oldestcock of the farmyard, but for all that it made a brave appearance ina shallow sea of soup. The fowls were always boiled--withoutexception, so far as my memory carries me; the guid-wife never havingthe heart to roast them, and so lose the broth. One round ofwhiskey-and-water was all the drink to which his shilling entitledthe guest. If he wanted more he had to pay for it. There was muchrevelry, with song and dance, that no stranger could have thoughtthose stiff-limbed weavers capable of; and the more they shouted andwhirled through the barn, the more their host smiled and rubbed hishands. He presided at the bar improvised for the occasion, and ifthe thing was conducted with spirit his bride flung an apron overher gown and helped him. I remember one elderly bridegroom who, having married a blind woman, had to do double work at his pennywedding. It was a sight to see him flitting about the torch-litbarn, with a kettle of hot water in one hand and a besom to sweepup crumbs in the other. 

Though Sam'l had no penny wedding, however, we made a night of it athis marriage. 

Wedding-chariots were not in those days, though I know of AuldLichts being conveyed to marriages nowadays by horses with whiteears. The tea over, we formed in couples, and--the best man with thebride, the bridegroom with the best maid, leading the way--marchedin slow procession in the moonlight night to Tibbie's new home, between lines of hoarse and eager onlookers. An attempt was made byan itinerant musician to head the company with his fiddle; butinstrumental music, even in the streets, was abhorrent to sound AuldLichts, and the minister had spoken privately to Willie Todd on thesubject. As a consequence, Peter was driven from the ranks. The lastthing I saw that night, as we filed, bareheaded and solemn, into thenewly married couple's house, was Kitty McQueen's vigorous arm, in adishevelled sleeve, pounding a pair of urchins who had got betweenher and a muddy ha'penny. 

That night there was revelry and boisterous mirth (or what the AuldLichts took for such) in Tibbie's kitchen. At eleven o'clock DavitLunan cracked a joke. Davie Haggart, in reply to Bell Dundas'request, gave a song of distinctly secular tendencies. The bride(who had carefully taken off her wedding-gown on getting home anddonned a wrapper) coquettishly let the bridegroom's father hold herhand. In Auld Licht circles, when one of the company was offeredwhiskey and refused it, the others, as if pained even at the offer, pushed it from them as a thing abhorred. But Davie Haggart setanother example on this occasion, and no one had the courage torefuse to follow it. We sat late round the dying fire, and it wasonly Willie Todd's scandalous assertion (he was but a boy) about hisbeing able to dance that induced us to think of moving. In thecommunity, I understand, this marriage is still memorable as theoccasion on which Bell Whamond laughed in the minister's face. 

CHAPTER V. 

THE AULD LIGHTS IN ARMS. 

Arms and men I sing: douce Jeemsy Todd, rushing from his loom, armedwith a bed-post; Lisbeth Whamond, an avenging whirlwind: NeilHaggart, pausing in his thank-offerings to smite and slay; theimpious foe scudding up the bleeding Brae-head with Nemesis at theirflashing heels; the minister holding it a nice question whether thecarnage was not justified. Then came the two hours' sermons of thefollowing Sabbath, when Mr. Dishart, revolving like a teetotum inthe pulpit, damned every bandaged person present, individually andcollectively; and Lang Tammas in the precentor's box with a plasteron his cheek, included any one the minister might have by chanceomitted, and the congregation, with most of their eyes bunged up, burst into psalms of praise. 

Twice a year the Auld Lichts went demented. The occasion was thefast-day at Tilliedrum; when its inhabitants, instead of crowdingreverently to the kirk, swooped profanely down in their scores andtens of scores on our God-fearing town, intent on making a day ofit. Then did the weavers rise as one man, and go forth to show theribald crew the errors of their way. All denominations wererepresented, but Auld Lichts led. An Auld Licht would have taken noman's blood without the conviction that he would be the bettermorally for the bleeding; and if Tammas Lunan's case gave an impetusto the blows, it can only have been because it opened wider AuldLicht eyes to Tilliedrum's desperate condition. Mr. Dishart'spredecessor more than once remarked that at the Creation the devilput forward a claim for Thrums, but said he would take his chance ofTilliedrum; and the statement was generally understood to be made onthe authority of the original Hebrew. 

The mustard-seed of a feud between the two parishes shot into a talltree in a single night, when Davit Lunan's father went to a tattieroup at Tilliedrum and thoughtlessly died there. Twenty-four hoursafterward a small party of staid Auld Lichts, carrying long whitepoles, stepped out of various wynds and closes and picked theirsolemn way to the house of mourning. Nanny Low, the widow, receivedthem dejectedly, as one oppressed by the knowledge that her man'sdeath at such an inopportune place did not fulfil the promise of hisyouth; and her guests admitted bluntly that they were disappointedin Tammas. Snecky Hobart's father's unusually long and impressiveprayer was an official intimation that the deceased, in the opinionof the session, sorely needed everything of the kind he could get;and then the silent driblet of Auld Lichts in black stalked off inthe direction of Tilliedrum. Women left their spinning-wheels andpirns to follow them with their eyes along the Tenements, and theminister was known to be holding an extra service at the manse. Whenthe little procession reached the boundary-line between the twoparishes, they sat down on a dyke and waited. 

By-and-bye half a dozen men drew near from the opposite direction, bearing on poles the remains of Tammas Lunan in a closed coffin. Thecoffin was brought to within thirty yards of those who awaited it, and then roughly lowered to the ground. Its bearers rested moroselyon their poles. In conveying Lunan's remains to the borders of hisown parish they were only conforming to custom; but Thrums andTilliedrum differed as to where the boundary-line was drawn, and nota foot would either advance into the other's territory. 

For half a day the coffin lay unclaimed, and the two parties satscowling at each other. Neither dared move. Gloaming had stolen intothe valley when Dite Deuchars, of Tilliedrum, rose to his feet anddeliberately spat upon the coffin. A stone whizzed through the air;and then the ugly spectacle was presented, in the gray night, of adozen mutes fighting with their poles over a coffin. There was bloodon the shoulders that bore Tammas' remains to Thrums. 

After that meeting Tilliedrum lived for the fast-day. Never, perhaps, was there a community more given up to sin, and Thrums felt"called" to its chastisement. The insult to Lunan's coffin, however, dispirited their weavers for a time, and not until the suicide ofPitlums did they put much fervor into their prayers. It made new menof them. Tilliedrum's sins had found it out. Pitlums was a farmer inthe parish of Thrums, but he had been born at Tilliedrum; and Thrumsthanked Providence for that, when it saw him suspended between twohams from his kitchen rafters. The custom was to cart suicides tothe quarry at the Galla pond and bury them near the cairn that hadsupported the gallows; but on this occasion not a farmer in theparish would lend a cart, and for a week the corpse lay on thesanded floor as it had been cut down--an object of awestruckinterest to boys who knew no better than to peep through thedarkened window. Tilliedrum bit its lips at home. The Auld Lichtminister, it was said, had been approached on the subject; but, after serious consideration, did not see his way to offering up aprayer. Finally old Hobart and two others tied a rope round thebody, and dragged it from the farm to the cairn, a distance of fourmiles. Instead of this incident's humbling Tilliedrum into attendingchurch, the next fast-day saw its streets deserted. As for theThrums Auld Lichts, only heavy wobs prevented their walking erectlike men who had done their duty. If no prayer was volunteered forPitlums before his burial, there was a great deal of psalm-singingafter it. 

By early morn on their fast-day the Tilliedrummers were stragglinginto Thrums, and the weavers, already at their looms, read theclattering of feet and carts aright. To convince themselves, allthey had to do was to raise their eyes; but the first triumph wouldhave been to Tilliedrum if they had done that. The invaders--the menin Aberdeen blue serge coats, velvet knee-breeches, and broad bluebonnets, and the wincey gowns of the women set off with hoodedcloaks of red or tartan--tapped at the windows and shoutedinsultingly as they passed; but, with pursed lips, Thrums bentfiercely over its wobs, and not an Auld Licht showed outside hisdoor. The day wore on to noon, and still ribaldry was master of thewynds. But there was a change inside the houses. The minister hadpulled down his blinds; moody men had left their looms for stools bythe fire; there were rumors of a conflict in Andra Gowrie's close, from which Kitty McQueen had emerged with her short gown in rags;and Lang Tammas was going from door to door. The austere precentoradmonished fiery youth to beware of giving way to passion; and itwas a proud day for the Auld Lichts to find their leading elder soconversant with apt Scripture texts. They bowed their headsreverently while he thundered forth that those who lived by thesword would perish by the sword; and when he had finished they tookhim ben to inspect their bludgeons. I have a vivid recollection ofgoing the round of the Auld Licht and other houses to see the sticksand the wrists in coils of wire. 

A stranger in the Tenements in the afternoon would have noted morethan one draggled youth in holiday attire, sitting on a doorstepwith a wet cloth to his nose; and, passing down the commonty, hewould have had to step over prostrate lumps of humanity from whichall shape had departed. Gavin Ogilvy limped heavily after hisencounter with Thrummy Tosh--a struggle that was looked forward toeagerly as a bi-yearly event; Christy Davie's development of musclehad not prevented her going down before the terrible onslaught ofJoe the miller, and Lang Tammas' plasters told a tale. It was in thesquare that the two parties, leading their maimed and blind, formedin force; Tilliedrum thirsting for its opponents' blood, and Thrumshumbly accepting the responsibility of punching the fast-daybreakers into the ways of rectitude. In the small, ill-kept squarethe invaders, to the number of about a hundred, were wedged togetherat its upper end, while the Thrums people formed in a thick line atthe foot. For its inhabitants the way to Tilliedrum lay through thisthreatening mass of armed weavers. No words were bandied between thetwo forces; the centre of the square was left open, and nearly everyeye was fixed on the town-house clock. It directed operations andgave the signal to charge. The moment six o'clock struck, the uppermass broke its bonds and flung itself on the living barricade. Therewas a clatter of heads and sticks, a yelling and a groaning, andthen the invaders, bursting through the opposing ranks, fled forTilliedrum. Down the Tanage brae and up the Brae-head they skurried, half a hundred avenging spirits in pursuit. On the Tilliedrum fast-dayI have tasted blood myself. In the godless place there is no Auld Lichtkirk, but there are two Auld Lichts in it now who walk to Thrums tochurch every Sabbath, blow or rain as it lists. They are making theirinfluence felt in Tilliedrum. 

The Auld Lichts also did valorous deeds at the Battle of Cabbylatch. The farm land so named lies a mile or more to the south of Thrums. You have to go over the rim of the cut to reach it. It is low-lyingand uninteresting to the eye, except for some giant stones scatteredcold and naked through the fields. No human hands reared thesebowlders, but they might be looked upon as tombstones to the heroeswho fell (to rise hurriedly) on the plain of Cabbylatch. 

The fight of Cabbylatch belongs to the days of what are now butdimly remembered as the Meal Mobs. Then there was a wild cry allover the country for bread (not the fine loaves that we know, butsomething very much coarser), and hungry men and women, prematurelyshrunken, began to forget the taste of meal. Potatoes were theirchief sustenance, and, when the crop failed, starvation grippedthem. At that time the farmers, having control of the meal, had thesmall towns at their mercy, and they increased its cost. The priceof the meal went up and up, until the famishing people swarmed upthe sides of the carts in which it was conveyed to the towns, and, tearing open the sacks, devoured it in handfuls. In Thrums they hada stern sense of justice, and for a time, after taking possession ofthe meal, they carried it to the square and sold it at what theyconsidered a reasonable price. The money was handed over to thefarmers. The honesty of this is worth thinking about, but it seemsto have only incensed the farmers the more; and when they saw thatto send their meal to the town was not to get high prices for it, they laid their heads together and then gave notice that the peoplewho wanted meal and were able to pay for it must come to the farms. In Thrums no one who cared to live on porridge and bannocks hadmoney to satisfy the farmers; but, on the other hand, none of themgrudged going for it, and go they did. They went in numbers fromfarm to farm, like bands of hungry rats, and throttled theopposition they not infrequently encountered. The raging farmers atlast met in council, and, noting that they were lusty men and brave, resolved to march in armed force upon the erring people and burntheir town. Now we come to the Battle of Cabbylatch. 

The farmers were not less than eighty strong, and chiefly consistedof cavalry. Armed with pitchforks and cumbrous scythes where theywere not able to lay their hands on the more orthodox weapons ofwar, they presented a determined appearance; the few foot-soldierswho had no cart-horses at their disposal bearing in their armsbundles of firewood. One memorable morning they set out to avengetheir losses; and by and by a halt was called, when each man bowedhis head to listen. In Thrums, pipe and drum were calling theinhabitants to arms. Scouts rushed in with the news that the farmerswere advancing rapidly upon the town, and soon the streets wereclattering with feet. At that time Thrums had its piper and drummer(the bellman of a later and more degenerate age); and on thisoccasion they marched together through the narrow wynds, firing theblood of haggard men and summoning them to the square. According tomy informant's father, the gathering of these angry and startledweavers, when he thrust his blue bonnet on his head and rushed outto join them, was an impressive and solemn spectacle. That bloodshedwas meant there can be no doubt; for starving men do not see theludicrous side of things. The difference between the farmers and thetown had resolved itself into an ugly and sullen hate, and thewealthier townsmen who would have come between the people and thebread were fiercely pushed aside. There was no nominal leader, butevery man in the ranks meant to fight for himself and hisbelongings; and they are said to have sallied out to meet the foe inno disorder. The women they would fain have left behind them; butthese had their own injuries to redress, and they followed in theirhusbands' wake carrying bags of stones. The men, who were of variousdenominations, were armed with sticks, blunderbusses, anything theycould snatch up at a moment's notice; and some of them were notunacquainted with fighting. Dire silence prevailed among the men, but the women shouted as they ran, and the curious army movedforward to the drone and squall of drum and pipe. The enemy wassighted on the level land of Cabbylatch, and here, while theintending combatants glared at each other, a well-known localmagnate galloped his horse between them and ordered them in the nameof the king to return to their homes. But for the farmers that meantfurther depredation at the people's hands, and the townsmen wouldnot go back to their gloomy homes to sit down and wait for sunshine. Soon stones (the first, it is said, cast by a woman) darkened theair. The farmers got the word to charge, but their horses, with thebest intentions, did not know the way. There was a stampeding indifferent directions, a blind rushing of one frightened steedagainst another; and then the townspeople, breaking any ranks theyhad hitherto managed to keep, rushed vindictively forward. Thestruggle at Cabbylatch itself was not of long duration; for theirown horses proved the farmers' worst enemies, except in the caseswhere these sagacious animals took matters into their own orderingand bolted judiciously for their stables. The day was to Thrums. 

Individual deeds of prowess were done that day. Of these not theleast fondly remembered by her descendants were those of the gallantmatron who pursued the most obnoxious farmer in the district even tohis very porch with heavy stones and opprobrious epithets. Once whenhe thought he had left her far behind did he alight to draw breathand take a pinch of snuff, and she was upon him like a flail. With aterror stricken cry he leaped once more upon his horse and fled, butnot without leaving his snuff-box in the hands of the derisiveenemy. Meggy has long gone to the kirk-yard, but the snuff-mull isstill preserved. 

Some ugly cuts were given and received, and heads as well as ribswere broken; but the townsmen's triumph was short-lived. Theringleaders were whipped through the streets of Perth, as a warningto persons thinking of taking the law into their own hands; and allthe lasting consolation they got was that, some time afterward, thechief witness against them, the parish minister, met with amysterious death. They said it was evidently the hand of God; butsome people looked suspiciously at them when they said it. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE OLD DOMINIE. 

From the new cemetery, which is the highest point in Thrums, youjust fail to catch sight of the red school-house that nestlesbetween two bare trees, some five miles up the glen of Quharity. This was proved by Davit Lunan, tinsmith, whom I have heard tell thestory. It was in the time when the cemetery gates were locked tokeep the bodies of suicides out, but men who cared to risk theconsequences could get the coffin over the high dyke and bury itthemselves. Peter Lundy's coffin broke, as one might say, into thechurch-yard in this way, Peter having hanged himself in the Whunnywood when he saw that work he must. The general feeling among theintimates of the deceased was expressed by Davit when he said:

"It may do the crittur nae guid i' the tail o' the day, but he paidfor's bit o' ground, an' he's in's richt to occupy it. "

The custom was to push the coffin on to the wall up a plank, andthen let it drop less carefully into the cemetery. Some of themourners were dragging the plank over the wall, with Davit Lunan onthe top directing them, when they seem to have let go and sent thetinsmith suddenly into the air. A week afterward it struck Davit, when in the act of soldering a hole in Leeby Wheens' flagon (here hebranched off to explain that he had made the flagon years before, and that Leeby was sister to Tammas Wheens, and married one BakerRobbie, who died of chicken-pox in his forty-fourth year), that when"up there" he had a view of Quharity school-house. Davit was astruthful as a man who tells the same story more than once can beexpected to be, and it is far from a suspicious circumstance that hedid not remember seeing the school-house all at once. In Thrumsthings only struck them gradually. The new cemetery, for instance, was only so called because it had been new once. 

In this red stone school, full of the modern improvements that hedetested, the old dominie whom I succeeded taught, and sometimesslept, during the last five years of his cantankerous life. It wasin a little thatched school, consisting of but one room, that he didhis best work, some five hundred yards away from the edifice thatwas reared in its stead. Now dismally fallen into disrepute, oftenindeed a domicile for cattle, the ragged academy of Glen Quharity, where he held despotic sway for nearly half a century, is falling topieces slowly in a howe that conceals it from the high-road. Even inits best scholastic days, when it sent barefooted lads to collegewho helped to hasten the Disruption, it was but a pile of ungainlystones, such as Scott's Black Dwarf flung together in a night, withholes in its broken roof of thatch where the rain trickled through, and never with less than two of its knotted little window-panesstopped with brown paper. The twelve or twenty pupils of both sexeswho constituted the attendance sat at the two loose desks, whichnever fell unless you leaned on them, with an eye on the corner ofthe earthen floor where the worms came out, and on cold days theyliked the wind to turn the peat smoke into the room. One boy, whowas supposed to wash it out, got his education free for keeping theschool-house dirty, and the others paid their way with peats, whichthey brought in their hands, just as wealthier school-children carrybooks, and with pence which the dominie collected regularly everyMonday morning. The attendance on Monday mornings was often small. 

Once a year the dominie added to his income by holding cockfights inthe old school. This was at Yule, and the same practice held in theparish school of Thrums. It must have been a strange sight. Everymale scholar was expected to bring a cock to the school, and to paya shilling to the dominie for the privilege of seeing it killedthere. The dominie was the master of the sports, assisted by theneighboring farmers, some of whom might be elders of the church. Three rounds were fought. By the end of the first round all thecocks had fought, and the victors were then pitted against eachother. The cocks that survived the second round were eligible forthe third, and the dominie, besides his shilling, got every cockkilled. Sometimes, if all stories be true, the spectators werefighting with each other before the third round concluded. 

The glen was but sparsely dotted with houses even in those days; anumber of them inhabited by farmer-weavers, who combined two tradesand just managed to live. One would have a plough, another a horse, and so in Glen Quharity they helped each other. Without a loom inaddition many of them would have starved, and on Saturdays the bigfarmer and his wife, driving home in a gig, would pass the littlefarmer carrying or wheeling his wob to Thrums. When there was nolonger a market for the produce of the hand-loom these farms had tobe given up, and thus it is that the old school is not the onlyhouse in our weary glen around which gooseberry and currant bushes, once tended by careful hands, now grow wild. 

In heavy spates the children were conveyed to the old school, asthey are still to the new one, in carts, and between it and thedominie's whitewashed, dwelling-house swirled in winter a torrent ofwater that often carried lumps of the land along with it. This burnhe had at times to ford on stilts. 

Before the Education Act passed the dominie was not much troubled bythe school inspector, who appeared in great splendor every year atThrums. Fifteen years ago, however, Glen Quharity resolved itselfinto a School Board, and marched down the glen, with the minister atits head, to condemn the school. When the dominie, who had heard oftheir design, saw the board approaching, he sent one of hisscholars, who enjoyed making a mess of himself, wading across theburn to bring over the stilts which were lying on the other side. The board were thus unable to send across a spokesman, and afterthey had harangued the dominie, who was in the best of tempers, fromthe wrong side of the stream, the siege was raised by theirreturning home, this time with the minister in the rear. So far asis known, this was the only occasion on which the dominie everlifted his hat to the minister. He was the Established Churchminister at the top of the glen, but the dominie was an Auld Licht, and trudged into Thrums to church nearly every Sunday with hisdaughter. 

The farm of Little Tilly lay so close to the dominie's house that fromone window he could see through a telescope whether the farmer wasgoing to church, owing to Little Tilly's habit of never shaving exceptwith that intention, and of always doing it at a looking-glass whichhe hung on a nail in his door. The farmer was Established Church, andwhen the dominie saw him in his shirt-sleeves with a razor in his hand, he called for his black clothes. If he did not see him it is undeniablethat the dominie sent his daughter to Thrums, but remained at homehimself. Possibly, therefore, the dominie sometimes went to church, because he did not want to give Little Tilly and the Establishedminister the satisfaction of knowing that he was not devout today, and it is even conceivable that had Little Tilly had a telescope and anintellect as well as his neighbor, he would have spied on the dominiein return. He sent the teacher a load of potatoes every year, and therecipient rated him soundly if they did not turn out as well as theones he had got the autumn before. Little Tilly was rather in awe ofthe dominie, and had an idea that he was a Freethinker, because heplayed the fiddle and wore a black cap. 

The dominie was a wizened-looking little man, with sharp eyes thatpierced you when they thought they were unobserved, and if anyvisitor drew near who might be a member of the board, he disappearedinto his house much as a startled weasel makes for its hole. Themost striking thing about him was his walk, which to the casualobserver seemed a limp. The glen in our part is marshy, and toprogress along it you have to jump from one little island of grassor heather to another. Perhaps it was this that made the dominietake the main road and even the streets of Thrums in leaps, as ifthere were bowlders or puddles in the way. It is, however, currentlybelieved among those who knew him best that he jerked himself alongin that way when he applied for the vacancy in Glen Quharity school, and that he was therefore chosen from among the candidates by thecommittee of farmers, who saw that he was specially constructed forthe district. 

In the spring the inspector was sent to report on the school, and, of course, he said, with a wave of his hand, that this would neverdo. So a new school was built, and the ramshackle little academythat had done good service in its day was closed for the last time. For years it had been without a lock; ever since a blatter of windand rain drove the door against the fire-place. After that it wasthe dominie's custom, on seeing the room cleared, to send in a smartboy--a dux was always chosen--who wedged a clod of earth or peatbetween doorpost and door. Thus the school was locked up for thenight. The boy came out by the window, where he entered to open thedoor next morning. In time grass hid the little path from view thatled to the old school, and a dozen years ago every particle of woodabout the building, including the door and the framework of thewindows, had been burned by travelling tinkers. 

The board would have liked to leave the dominie in his whitewasheddwelling-house to enjoy his old age comfortably, and until helearned that he had intended to retire. Then he changed his tacticsand removed his beard. Instead of railing at the new school, hebegan to approve of it, and it soon came to the ears of thehorrified Established minister, who had a man (Established) in hiseye for the appointment, that the dominie was looking ten yearsyounger. As he spurned a pension he had to get the place, and thenbegan a warfare of bickerings between the board and him that lasteduntil within a few weeks of his death. In his scholastic barn thedominie had thumped the Latin grammar into his scholars till theybecame university bursars to escape him. In the new school, withmaps (which he hid in the hen-house) and every other modernappliance for making teaching easy, he was the scandal of the glen. He snapped at the clerk of the board's throat, and barred his doorin the minister's face. It was one of his favorite relaxations toperegrinate the district, telling the farmers who were not on theboard themselves, but were given to gossiping with those who were, that though he could slumber pleasantly in the school so long as thehum of the standards was kept up, he immediately woke if it ceased. 

Having settled himself in his new quarters, the dominie seems tohave read over the code and come at once to the conclusion that itwould be idle to think of straightforwardly fulfilling itsrequirements. The inspector he regarded as a natural enemy, who wasto be circumvented by much guile. One year that admirable Oxford donarrived at the school, to find that all the children, except twogirls--one of whom had her face tied up with red flannel--were awayfor the harvest. On another occasion the dominie met the inspector'strap some distance from the school, and explained that he wouldguide him by a short cut, leaving the driver to take the dog-cart toa farm where it could be put up. The unsuspecting inspector agreed, and they set off, the obsequious dominie carrying his bag. He ledhis victim into another glen, the hills round which had hidden theirheads in mist, and then slyly remarked that he was afraid they hadlost their way. The minister, who liked to attend the examination, reproved the dominie for providing no luncheon, but turned pale whenhis enemy suggested that he should examine the boys in Latin. 

For some reason that I could never discover, the dominie had all hislife refused to teach his scholars geography. The inspector and manyothers asked him why there was no geography class, and hisinvariable answer was to point to his pupils collectively, and replyin an impressive whisper:

"They winna hae her. "

This story, too, seems to reflect against the dominie's views oncleanliness. One examination day the minister attended to open theinspection with prayer. Just as he was finishing, a scholar enteredwho had a reputation for dirt. 

"Michty!" cried a little pupil, as his opening eyes fell on theapparition at the door, "there's Jocky Tamson wi' his face washed!"

When the dominie was a younger man he had first clashed with theminister during Mr. Rattray's attempts to do away with some oldcustoms that were already dying by inches. One was the selection ofa queen of beauty from among the young women at the annual Thrumsfair. The judges, who were selected from the better-known farmers asa rule, sat at the door of a tent that reeked of whiskey, andregarded the competitors filing by much as they selected prizesheep, with a stolid stare. There was much giggling and blushing onthese occasions among the maidens, and shouts from their relativesand friends to "Haud yer head up, Jean, " and "Lat them see yer een, Jess. " The dominie enjoyed this, and was one time chosen, a judge, when he insisted on the prize's being bestowed on his own daughter, Marget. The other judges demurred, but the dominie remained firm andwon the day. 

"She wasna the best-faured amon them, " he admitted afterward, "but aman maun mak the maist o' his ain. "

The dominie, too, would not shake his head with Mr. Rattray over theapple and loaf bread raffles in the smithy, nor even at the DaftDays, the black week of glum debauch that ushered in the year, aperiod when the whole countryside rumbled to the farmers' "kebec"laden cart. 

For the great part of his career the dominie had not made fortypounds a year, but he "died worth" about three hundred pounds. Themoral of his life came in just as he was leaving it, for he rosefrom his death-bed to hide a whiskey-bottle from his wife. 

CHAPTER VII. 

CREE QUEERY AND MYSY DROLLY. 

The children used to fling stones at Grinder Queery because he lovedhis mother. I never heard the Grinder's real name. He and his motherwere Queery and Drolly, contemptuously so called, and they answeredto these names. I remember Cree best as a battered old weaver, whobent forward as he walked, with his arms hanging limp as if ready tograsp the shafts of the barrow behind which it was his life tototter up hill and down hill, a rope of yarn suspended round hisshaking neck and fastened to the shafts, assisting him to bear theyoke and slowly strangling him. By and by there came a time when thebarrow and the weaver seemed both palsy-stricken, and Cree, gaspingfor breath, would stop in the middle of a brae, unable to push hisload over a stone. Then he laid himself down behind it to preventthe barrow's slipping back. On those occasions only the barefootedboys who jeered at the panting weaver could put new strength intohis shrivelled arms. They did it by telling him that he and Mysywould have to go to the "poorshouse" after all, at which the grayold man would wince, as if "joukin" from a blow, and, shuddering, rise and, with a desperate effort, gain the top of the incline. Small blame perhaps attached to Cree if, as he neared his grave, hegrew a little dottle. His loads of yarn frequently took him past theworkhouse, and his eyelids quivered as he drew near. Boys used togather round the gate in anticipation of his coming, and make afeint of driving him inside. Cree, when he observed them, sat downon his barrow-shafts terrified to approach, and I see them nowpointing to the workhouse till he left his barrow on the road andhobbled away, his legs cracking as he ran. 

It is strange to know that there was once a time when Cree was youngand straight, a callant who wore a flower in his button-hole andtried to be a hero for a maiden's sake. 

Before Cree settled down as a weaver, he was knife and scissorgrinder for three counties, and Mysy, his mother, accompanied himwherever he went. Mysy trudged alongside him till her eyes grew dimand her limbs failed her, and then Cree was told that she must besent to the pauper's home. After that a pitiable and beautiful sightwas to be seen. Grinder Queery, already a feeble man, would wheelhis grindstone along the long high-road, leaving Mysy behind. Hetook the stone on a few hundred yards, and then, hiding it by theroadside in a ditch or behind a paling, returned for his mother. Herhe led--sometimes he almost carried her--to the place where thegrindstone lay, and thus by double journeys kept her with him. Everyone said that Mysy's death would be a merciful release--every onebut Cree. 

Cree had been a grinder from his youth, having learned the tradefrom his father, but he gave it up when Mysy became almost blind. For a time he had to leave her in Thrums with Dan'l Wilkie's wife, and find employment himself in Tilliedrum. Mysy got me to writeseveral letters for her to Cree, and she cried while telling me whatto say. I never heard either of them use a term of endearment to theother, but all Mysy could tell me to put in writing was: "Oh, my sonCree; oh, my beloved son; oh, I have no one but you; oh, thou Godwatch over my Cree!" On one of these occasions Mysy put into myhands a paper, which she said would perhaps help me to write theletter. It had been drawn up by Cree many years before, when he andhis mother had been compelled to part for a time, and I saw from itthat he had been trying to teach Mysy to write. The paper consistedof phrases such as "Dear son Cree, " "Loving mother, " "I am takin' myfood weel, " "Yesterday, " "Blankets, " "The peats is near done, " "Mr. Dishart, " "Come home, Cree. " The grinder had left this paper withhis mother, and she had written letters to him from it. 

When Dan'l Wilkie objected to keeping a cranky old body like Mysy inhis house, Cree came back to Thrums and took a single room with ahand-loom in it. The flooring was only lumpy earth, with sacks spreadover it to protect Mysy's feet. The room contained two dilapidatedold coffin-beds, a dresser, a high-backed arm-chair, severalthree-legged stools, and two tables, of which one could be packedaway beneath the other. In one corner stood the wheel at which Creehad to fill his own pirns. There was a plate-rack on one wall, andnear the chimney-piece hung the wag-at-the-wall clock, the time-piecethat was commonest in Thrums at that time, and that got this namebecause its exposed pendulum swung along the wall. The two windows inthe room faced each other on opposite walls, and were so small thateven a child might have stuck in trying to crawl through them. Theyopened on hinges, like a door. In the wall of the dark passage leadingfrom the outer door into the room was a recess where a pan and pitcherof water always stood wedded, as it were, and a little hole, known asthe "bole, " in the wall opposite the fire-place contained Cree'slibrary. It consisted of Baxter's "Saints' Rest, " Harvey's "Meditations, "the "Pilgrim's Progress, " a work on folk-lore, and several Bibles. Thesaut-backet, or salt-bucket, stood at the end of the fender, whichwas half of an old cart-wheel. Here Cree worked, whistling "Ower thewatter for Chairlie" to make Mysy think that he was as gay as a mavis. Mysy grew querulous in her old age, and up to the end she thought ofpoor, done Cree as a handsome gallant. Only by weaving far on into thenight could Cree earn as much as six shillings a week. He began at sixo'clock in the morning, and worked until midnight by the light of hiscruizey. The cruizey was all the lamp Thrums had in those days, thoughit is only to be seen in use now in a few old-world houses in theglens. It is an ungainly thing in iron, the size of a man's palm, andshaped not unlike the palm when contracted and deepened to hold aliquid. Whale-oil, lying open in the mould, was used, and the wick wasa rash with the green skin peeled off. These rashes were sold byherd-boys at a halfpenny the bundle, but Cree gathered his own wicks. The rashes skin readily when you know how to do it. The iron mould wasplaced inside another of the same shape, but slightly larger, for intime the oil dripped through the iron, and the whole was then hungby a cleek or hook close to the person using it. Even with threewicks it gave but a stime of light, and never allowed the weaver tosee more than the half of his loom at a time. Sometimes Cree usedthreads for wicks. He was too dull a man to have many visitors, butMr. Dishart called occasionally and reproved him for telling hismother lies. The lies Cree told Mysy were that he was sharing themeals he won for her, and that he wore the overcoat which he hadexchanged years before for a blanket to keep her warm. 

There was a terrible want of spirit about Grinder Queery. Boys usedto climb on to his stone roof with clods of damp earth in their hands, which they dropped down the chimney. Mysy was bedridden by this time, and the smoke threatened to choke her; so Cree, instead of chasinghis persecutors, bargained with them. He gave them fly-hooks whichhe had busked himself, and when he had nothing left to give he triedto flatter them into dealing gently with Mysy by talking to them asmen. One night it went through the town that Mysy now lay in bed allday listening for her summons to depart. According to her ideas thiswould come in the form of a tapping at the window, and their intentionwas to forestall the spirit. Dite Gow's boy, who is now a grown man, was hoisted up to one of the little windows, and he has always thoughtof Mysy since as he saw her then for the last time. She lay sleeping, so far as he could see, and Cree sat by the fireside looking at her. 

Every one knew that there was seldom a fire in that house unlessMysy was cold. Cree seemed to think that the fire was getting low. In the little closet, which, with the kitchen, made up his house, was a corner shut off from the rest of the room by a few boards, andbehind this he kept his peats. There was a similar receptacle forpotatoes in the kitchen. Cree wanted to get another peat for thefire without disturbing Mysy. First he took off his boots, and madefor the peats on tip-toe. His shadow was cast on the bed, however, so he next got down on his knees and crawled softly into the closet. With the peat in his hands he returned in the same way, glancingevery moment at the bed where Mysy lay. Though Tammy Gow's face waspressed against a broken window, he did not hear Cree putting thatpeat on the fire. Some say that Mysy heard, but pretended not to doso for her son's sake; that she realized the deception he played onher and had not the heart to undeceive him. But it would be too sadto believe that. The boys left Cree alone that night. 

The old weaver lived on alone in that solitary house after Mysy lefthim, and by and by the story went abroad that he was saving money. At first no one believed this except the man who told it, but thereseemed after all to be something in it. You had only to hit Cree'strouser pocket to hear the money chinking, for he was afraid to letit out of his clutch. Those who sat on dykes with him when his day'slabor was over said that the wearer kept his hand all the time inhis pocket, and that they saw his lips move as he counted his hoardby letting it slip through his fingers. So there were boys whocalled "Miser Queery" after him instead of Grinder, and asked himwhether he was saving up to keep himself from the workhouse. 

But we had all done Cree wrong. It came out on his death-bed what hehad been storing up his money for. Grinder, according to the doctor, died of getting a good meal from a friend of his earlier days afterbeing accustomed to starve on potatoes and a very little oatmealindeed. The day before he died this friend sent him half asovereign, and when Grinder saw it he sat up excitedly in his bedand pulled his corduroys from beneath his pillow. The woman who, outof kindness, attended him in his last illness, looked on curiouslywhile Cree added the sixpences and coppers in his pocket to thehalf-sovereign. After all they only made some two pounds, but a lookof peace came into Cree's eyes as he told the woman to take it allto a shop in the town. Nearly twelve years previously Jamie Lowniehad lent him two pounds, and though the money was never asked for, it preyed on Cree's mind that he was in debt. He paid off all heowed, and so Cree's life was not, I think, a failure. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

THE COURTING OF T'NOWHEAD'S BELL. 

For two years it had been notorious in the square that Sam'l Dickiewas thinking of courting T'nowhead's Bell, and that if littleSanders Elshioner (which is the Thrums pronunciation of AlexanderAlexander) went in for her, he might prove a formidable rival. Sam'lwas a weaver in the Tenements, and Sanders a coal-carter, whosetrade-mark was a bell on his horse's neck that told when coal wascoming. Being something of a public man, Sanders had not, perhaps, so high a social position as Sam'l, but he had succeeded his fatheron the coal-cart, while the weaver had already tried several trades. It had always been against Sam'l, too, that once when the kirk wasvacant he had advised the selection of the third minister whopreached for it on the ground that it came expensive to pay a largenumber of candidates. The scandal of the thing was hushed up, out ofrespect for his father, who was a God-fearing man, but Sam'l wasknown by it in Lang Tammas' circle. The coal-carter was calledLittle Sanders to distinguish him from his father, who was not muchmore than half his size. He had grown up with the name, and itsinapplicability now came home to nobody. Sam'l's mother had beenmore far-seeing than Sanders'. Her man had been called Sammy all hislife because it was the name he got as a boy, so when their eldestson was born she spoke of him as Sam'l while still in the cradle. The neighbors imitated her, and thus the young man had a betterstart in life than had been granted to Sammy, his father. 

It was Saturday evening--the night in the week when Auld Licht youngmen fell in love. Sam'l Dickie, wearing a blue glengarry bonnet witha red ball on the top, came to the door of a one-story house in theTenements, and stood there wriggling, for he was in a suit of tweedfor the first time that week, and did not feel at one with them. When his feeling of being a stranger to himself wore off, he lookedup and down the road, which straggles between houses and gardens, and then, picking his way over the puddles, crossed to his father'shen-house and sat down on it. He was now on his way to the square. 

Eppie Fargus was sitting on an adjoining dyke knitting stockings, and Sam'l looked at her for a time. 

"Is't yersel, Eppie?" he said at last. 

"It's a' that, " said Eppie. 

"Hoo's a' wi' ye?" asked Sam'l. 

"We're juist aff an' on, " replied Eppie, cautiously. 

There was not much more to say, but as Sam'l sidled off the hen-house, he murmured politely, "Ay, ay. " In another minute he would have beenfairly started, but Eppie resumed the conversation. 

"Sam'l, " she said, with a twinkle in her eye, "ye can tell LisbethFargus I'll likely be drappin' in on her' aboot Mununday orTeisday. "

Lisbeth was sister to Eppie, and wife of Tammas McQuhatty, betterknown as T'nowhead, which was the name of his farm. She was thusBell's mistress. 

Sam'l leaned against the hen-house as if all his desire to departhad gone. 

"Hoo d'ye kin I'll be at the T'nowhead the nicht?" he asked, grinning in anticipation. 

"Ou, I'se warrant ye'll be after Bell, " said Eppie. 

"Am no sae sure o' that, " said Sam'l, trying to leer. He wasenjoying himself now. 

"Am no sure o' that, " he repeated, for Eppie seemed lost institches. 

"Sam'l!"

"Ay. "

"Ye'll be speirin' her sune noo, I dinna doot?"

This took Sam'l, who had only been courting Bell for a year or two, a little aback. 

"Hoo d'ye mean, Eppie?" he asked. 

"Maybe ye'll do't the nicht. "

"Na, there's nae hurry, " said Sam'l. 

"Weel, we're a' coontin' on't, Sam'l. "

"Gae wa wi' ye. "

"What for no?"

"Gae wa wi' ye, " said Sam'l again, "Bell's gei an' fond o' ye, Sam'l. "

"Ay, " said Sam'l. 

"But am dootin' ye're a fell billy wi' the lasses. "

"Ay, oh, I d'na kin, moderate, moderate, " said Sam'l, in highdelight. 

"I saw ye, " said Eppie, speaking with a wire in her mouth, "gae'inon terr'ble wi' Mysy Haggart at the pump last Saturday. "

"We was juist amoosin' oorsels, " said Sam'l, "It'll be nae amoosement to Mysy, " said Eppie, "gin ye brak herheart. "

"Losh, Eppie, " said Sam'l, "I didna think o' that. "

"Ye maun kin weel, Sam'l, 'at there's mony a lass wid jump at ye. "

"Ou, weel, " said Sam'l, implying that a man must take these thingsas they come. 

"For ye're a dainty chield to look at, Sam'l. "

"Do ye think so, Eppie? Ay, ay; oh, I d'na kin am onything by theordinar. "

"Ye mayna be, " said Eppie, "but lasses doesna do to be owerpartikler. "

Sam'l resented this, and prepared to depart again. 

"Ye'll no tell Bell that?" he asked, anxiously. 

"Tell her what?"

"Aboot me an' Mysy. "

"We'll see hoo ye behave yersel, Sam'l. "

"No 'at I care, Eppie; ye can tell her gin ye like. I widna thinktwice o' tellin' her mysel. "

"The Lord forgie ye for leein', Sam'l, " said Eppie, as hedisappeared down Tammy Tosh's close. Here he came upon HendersWebster. 

"Ye're late, Sam'l, " said Henders. 

"What for?"

"Ou, I was thinkin' ye wid be gaen the length o' T'nowhead thenicht, an' I saw Sanders Elshioner makkin's wy there an oor syne. "

"Did ye?" cried Sam'l, adding craftily, "but it's naething to me. "

"Tod, lad, " said Henders, "gin ye dinna buckle to, Sanders'll becarryin' her off. "

Sam'l flung back his head and passed on. 

"Sam'l!" cried Henders after him. 

"Ay, " said Sam'l, wheeling round. 

"Gie Bell a kiss frae me. "

The full force of this joke struck neither all at once. Sam'l beganto smile at it as he turned down the school-wynd, and it came uponHenders while he was in his garden feeding his ferret. Then heslapped his legs gleefully, and explained the conceit to Will'umByars, who went into the house and thought it over. 

There were twelve or twenty little groups of men in the square, which was lit by a flare of oil suspended over a cadger's cart. Nowand again a staid young woman passed through the square with abasket on her arm, and if she had lingered long enough to give themtime, some of the idlers would have addressed her. As it was, theygazed after her, and then grinned to each other. 

"Ay, Sam'l, " said two or three young men, as Sam'l joined thembeneath the town-clock. "Ay, Davit, " replied Sam'l. 

This group was composed of some of the sharpest wits in Thrums, andit was not to be expected that they would let this opportunity pass. Perhaps when Sam'l joined them he knew what was in store for him. 

"Was ye lookin' for T'nowhead's Bell, Sam'l?" asked one. 

"Or mebbe ye was wantin' the minister?" suggested another, the samewho had walked out twice with Chirsty Duff and not married her afterall. 

Sam'l could not think of a good reply at the moment, so he laughedgood-naturedly. 

"Ondootedly she's a snod bit crittur, " said Davit, archly. 

"An' michty clever wi' her fingers, " added Jamie Deuchars. 

"Man, I've thocht o' makkin' up to Bell mysel, " said Pete Ogle. "Widthere be ony chance, think ye, Sam'l?"

"I'm thinkin' she widna hae ye for her first, Pete, " replied Sam'l, in one of those happy flashes that come to some men, "but there'snae sayin' but what she micht tak ye to finish up wi'. "

The unexpectedness of this sally startled every one. Though Sam'ldid not set up for a wit, however, like Davit, it was notorious thathe could say a cutting thing once in a way. 

"Did ye ever see Bell reddin' up?" asked Pete, recovering from hisoverthrow. He was a man who bore no malice. 

"It's a sicht, " said Sam'l, solemnly. 

"Hoo will that be?" asked Jamie Deuchars. 

"It's weel worth yer while, " said Pete, "to ging atower to theT'nowhead an' see. Ye'll mind the closed-in beds i' the kitchen? Ay, weel, they're a fell spoilt crew, T'nowhead's litlins, an' no thataisy to manage. Th' ither lasses Lisbeth's hae'n had a michtytrouble wi' them. When they war i' the middle o' their reddin' upthe bairns wid come tumlin' about the floor, but, sal, I assure ye, Bell didna fash lang wi' them. Did she, Sam'l?"

"She did not, " said Sam'l, dropping into a fine mode of speech toadd emphasis to his remark. 

"I'll tell ye what she did, " said Pete to the others. "She juistlifted up the litlins, twa at a time, an' flung them into thecoffin-beds. Syne she snibbit the doors on them, an' keepit themthere till the floor was dry. "

"Ay, man, did she so?" said Davit, admiringly. 

"I've seen her do't mysel, " said Sam'l. 

"There's no a lassie maks better bannocks this side o' Fetter Lums, "continued Pete. 

"Her mither tocht her that, " said Sam'l; "she was a gran' han' atthe bakin', Kitty Ogilvy. "

"I've heard say, " remarked Jamie, putting it this way so as not totie himself down to anything, "'at Bell's scones is equal to MagLunan's. "

"So they are, " said Sam'l, almost fiercely. 

"I kin she's a neat han' at singein' a hen, " said Pete. 

"An' wi't a', " said Davit, "she's a snod, canty bit stocky in herSabbath claes. "

"If onything, thick in the waist, " suggested Jamie. 

"I dinna see that, " said Sam'l. 

"I d'na care for her hair either, " continued Jamie, who was verynice in his tastes; "something mair yalloweby wid be animprovement. "

"A'body kins, " growled Sam'l, "'at black hair's the bonniest. " Theothers chuckled. "Puir Sam'l!" Pete said. 

Sam'l not being certain whether this should be received with asmile or a frown, opened his mouth wide as a kind of compromise. This was position one with him for thinking things, over. 

Few Auld Lichts, as I have said, went the length of choosing ahelpmate for themselves. One day a young man's friends would see himmending the washing-tub of a maiden's mother. They kept the jokeuntil Saturday night, and then he learned from them what he had beenafter. It dazed him for a time, but in a year or so he grewaccustomed to the idea, and they were then married. With a littlehelp he fell in love just like other people. 

Sam'l was going the way of the others, but he found it difficult tocome to the point. He only went courting once a week, and he couldnever take up the running at the place where he left off theSaturday before. Thus he had not, so far, made great headway. Hismethod of making up to Bell had been to drop in at T'nowhead onSaturday nights and talk with the farmer about the rinderpest. 

The farm kitchen was Bell's testimonial. Its chairs, tables, andstools were scoured by her to the whiteness of Rob Angus' saw-millboards, and the muslin blind on the window was starched like achild's pinafore. Bell was brave, too, as well as energetic. OnceThrums had been overrun with thieves. It is now thought that theremay have been only one, but he had the wicked cleverness of a gang. Such was his repute that there were weavers who spoke of lockingtheir doors when they went from home. He was not very skilful, however, being generally caught, and when they said they knew he wasa robber, he gave them their things back and went away. If they hadgiven him time there is no doubt that he would have gone off withhis plunder. One night he went to T'nowhead, and Bell, who slept Inthe kitchen, was awakened by the noise. She knew who it would be, soshe rose and dressed herself, and went to look for him with acandle. The thief had not known what to do when he got in, and as itwas very lonely he was glad to see Bell. She told him he ought to beashamed of himself, and would not let him out by the door until hehad taken off his boots so as not to soil the carpet. 

On this Saturday evening Sam'l stood his ground in the square, untilby and by he found himself alone. There were other groups therestill, but his circle had melted away. They went separately, and noone said good-night. Each took himself off slowly, backing out ofthe group until he was fairly started. 

Sam'l looked about him, and then, seeing that the others had gone, walked round the town-house into the darkness of the brae that leadsdown and then up to the farm of T'nowhead. 

To get into the good graces of Lisbeth Fargus you had to know herways and humor them. Sam'l, who was a student of women, knew this, and so, instead of pushing the door open and walking in, he wentthrough the rather ridiculous ceremony of knocking. SandersElshioner was also aware of this weakness of Lisbeth's, but thoughhe often made up his mind to knock, the absurdity of the thingprevented his doing so when he reached the door. T'nowhead himselfhad never got used to his wife's refined notions, and when any oneknocked he always started to his feet, thinking there must besomething wrong. 

Lisbeth came to the door, her expansive figure blocking the way in. 

"Sam'l, " she said. 

"Lisbeth, " said Sam'l. 

He shook hands with the farmer's wife, knowing that she liked it, but only said, "Ay, Bell, " to his sweetheart, "Ay, T'nowhead, " toMcQuhatty, and "It's yersel, Sanders, " to his rival. 

They were all sitting round the fire; T'nowhead, with his feet onthe ribs, wondering why he felt so warm, and Bell darned a stocking, while Lisbeth kept an eye on a goblet full of potatoes. 

"Sit into the fire, Sam'l, " said the farmer, not, however, makingway for him. 

"Na, na, " said Sam'l; "I'm to bide nae time. " Then he sat into thefire. His face was turned away from Bell, and when she spoke heanswered her without looking round. Sam'l felt a little anxious. Sanders Elshioner, who had one leg shorter than the other, butlooked well when sitting, seemed suspiciously at home. He asked Bellquestions out of his own head, which was beyond Sam'l, and once hesaid something to her in such a low voice that the others could notcatch it. T'nowhead asked curiously what it was, and Sandersexplained that he had only said, "Ay, Bell, the morn's the Sabbath. "There was nothing startling in this, but Sam'l did not like it. Hebegan to wonder if he were too late, and had he seen his opportunitywould have told Bell of a nasty rumor that Sanders intended to goover to the Free Church if they would make him kirk-officer. 

Sam'l had the good-will of T'nowhead's wife, who liked a polite man. Sanders did his best, but from want of practice he constantly mademistakes. To-night, for instance, he wore his hat in the housebecause he did not like to put up his hand and take it off. T'nowhead had not taken his off either, but that was because hemeant to go out by and by and lock the byre door. It was impossibleto say which of her lovers Bell preferred. The proper course with anAuld Licht lassie was to prefer the man who proposed to her. 

"Ye'll bide a wee, an' hae something to eat?" Lisbeth asked Sam'l, with her eyes on the goblet. 

"No, I thank ye, " said Sam'l, with true gentility. 

"Ye'll better. "

"I dinna think it. "

"Hoots aye; what's to hender ye?"

"Weel, since ye're sae pressin', I'll bide. "

No one asked Sanders to stay. Bell could not, for she was but theservant, and T'nowhead knew that the kick his wife had given himmeant that he was not to do so either. Sanders whistled to show thathe was not uncomfortable. 

"Ay, then, I'll be stappin' ower the brae, " he said at last. 

He did not go, however. There was sufficient pride in him to get himoff his chair, but only slowly, for he had to get accustomed to thenotion of going. At intervals of two or three minutes he remarkedthat he must now be going. In the same circumstances Sam'l wouldhave acted similarly. For a Thrums man, it is one of the hardestthings in life to get away from anywhere. 

At last Lisbeth saw that something must be done. The potatoes wereburning, and T'nowhead had an invitation on his tongue. 

"Yes, I'll hae to be movin', " said Sanders, hopelessly, for thefifth time. 

"Guid nicht to ye, then, Sanders, " said Lisbeth. "Gie the door afling-to, ahent ye. "

Sanders, with a mighty effort, pulled himself together. He lookedboldly at Bell, and then took off his hat carefully. Sam'l saw withmisgivings that there was something in it which was not ahandkerchief. It was a paper bag glittering with gold braid, andcontained such an assortment of sweets as lads bought for theirlasses on the Muckle Friday. 

"Hae, Bell, " said Sanders, handing the bag to Bell in an off-handway as if it were but a trifle. Nevertheless he was a littleexcited, for he went off without saying good-night. 

No one spoke. Bell's face was crimson. T'nowhead fidgeted on hischair, and Lisbeth looked at Sam'l. The weaver was strangely calmand collected, though he would have liked to know whether this was aproposal. 

"Sit in by to the table, Sam'l, " said Lisbeth, trying to look as ifthings were as they had been before. 

She put a saucerful of butter, salt, and pepper near the fire tomelt, for melted butter is the shoeing-horn that helps over a mealof potatoes. Sam'l, however, saw what the hour required, and jumpingup, he seized his bonnet. 

"Hing the tatties higher up the joist, Lisbeth, " he said withdignity; "I'se be back in ten meenits. "

He hurried out of the house, leaving the others looking at eachother. 

"What do ye think?" asked Lisbeth. 

"I d'na kin, " faltered Bell. 

"Thae tatties is lang o' comin' to the boil, " said T'nowhead. 

In some circles a lover who behaved like Sam'l would have beensuspected of intent upon his rival's life, but neither Bell norLisbeth did the weaver that injustice. In a case of this kind itdoes not much matter what T'nowhead thought. 

The ten minutes had barely passed when Sam'l was back in the farmkitchen. He was too flurried to knock this time, and, indeed, Lisbeth did not expect it of him. 

"Bell, hae!" he cried, handing his sweetheart a tinsel bag twice thesize of Sanders' gift. 

"Losh preserve's!" exclaimed Lisbeth; "I'se warrant there's ashillin's worth. "

"There's a' that, Lisbeth--an' mair, " said Sam'l firmly. 

"I thank ye, Sam'l, " said Bell, feeling an unwonted elation as shegazed at the two paper bags in her lap. 

"Ye're ower extravegint, Sam'l, " Lisbeth said. 

"Not at all, " said Sam'l; "not at all. But I widna advise ye to eatthae ither anes, Bell--they're second quality. "

Bell drew back a step from Sam'l. 

"How do ye kin?" asked the farmer shortly, for he liked Sanders. 

"I speired i' the shop, " said Sam'l. 

The goblet was placed on a broken plate on the table with the saucerbeside it, and Sam'l, like the others, helped himself. What he didwas to take potatoes from the pot with his fingers, peel off theircoats, and then dip them into the butter. Lisbeth would have likedto provide knives and forks, but she knew that beyond a certainpoint T'nowhead was master in his own house. As for Sam'l, he feltvictory in his hands, and began to think that he had gone too far. 

In the mean time Sanders, little witting that Sam'l had trumped histrick, was sauntering along the kirk-wynd with his hat on the sideof his head. Fortunately he did not meet the minister. 

The courting of T'nowhead's Bell reached its crisis one Sabbathabout a month after the events above recorded. The minister was ingreat force that day, but it is no part of mine to tell how he borehimself. I was there, and am not likely to forget the scene. It wasa fateful Sabbath for T'nowhead's Bell and her swains, and destinedto be remembered for the painful scandal which they perpetrated intheir passion. 

Bell was not in the kirk. There being an infant of six months in thehouse it was a question of either Lisbeth or the lassie's staying athome with him, and though Lisbeth was unselfish in a general way, she could not resist the delight of going to church. She had ninechildren besides the baby, and being but a woman, it was the prideof her life to march them into the T'nowhead pew, so well watchedthat they dared not misbehave, and so tightly packed that they couldnot fall. The congregation looked at that pew, the mothersenviously, when they sang the lines--

 "Jerusalem like a city is Compactly built together. "

The first half of the service had been gone through on thisparticular Sunday without anything remarkable happening. It was atthe end of the psalm which preceded the sermon that SandersElshioner, who sat near the door, lowered his head until it was nohigher than the pews, and in that attitude, looking almost like afour-footed animal, slipped out of the church. In their eagerness tobe at the sermon many of the congregation did not notice him, andthose who did put the matter by in their minds for futureinvestigation. Sam'l, however, could not take it so coolly. From hisseat in the gallery he saw Sanders disappear, and his mind misgavehim. With the true lover's instinct he understood it all. Sandershad been struck by the fine turn-out in the T'nowhead pew. Bell wasalone at the farm. What an opportunity to work one's way up to aproposal! T'nowhead was so over-run with children, that such achance seldom occurred, except on a Sabbath. Sanders, doubtless, wasoff to propose, and he, Sam'l, was left behind. 

The suspense was terrible. Sam'l and Sanders had both known allalong that Bell would take the first of the two who asked her. Eventhose who thought her proud admitted that she was modest. Bitterlythe weaver repented having waited so long. Now it was too late. Inten minutes Sanders would be at T'nowhead; in an hour all would beover. Sam'l rose to his feet in a daze. His mother pulled him downby the coat-tail, and his father shook him, thinking he was walkingin his sleep. He tottered past them, however, hurried up the aisle, which was so narrow that Dan'l Ross could only reach his seat bywalking sideways, and was gone before the minister could do morethan stop in the middle of a whirl and gape in horror after him. 

A number of the congregation felt that day the advantage of sittingin the laft. What was a mystery to those downstairs was revealed tothem. From the gallery windows they had a fine open view to thesouth; and as Sam'l took the common; which was a short cut though asteep ascent, to T'nowhead, he was never out of their line ofvision. Sanders was not to be seen, but they guessed rightly thereason why. Thinking he had ample time, he had gone round by themain road to save his boots--perhaps a little scared by what wascoming. Sam'l's design was to forestall him by taking the shorterpath over the burn and up the commonty. 

It was a race for a wife, and several onlookers in the gallerybraved the minister's displeasure to see who won. Those who favoredSam'l's suit exultingly saw him leap the stream, while the friendsof Sanders fixed their eyes on the top of the common where it raninto the road. Sanders must come into sight there, and the one whoreached this point first would get Bell. 

As Auld Lichts do not walk abroad on the Sabbath, Sanders wouldprobably not be delayed. The chances were in his favor. Had it beenany other day in the week Sam'l might have run. So some of thecongregation in the gallery were thinking, when suddenly they sawhim bend low and then take to his heels. He had caught sight ofSanders' head bobbing over the hedge that separated the road fromthe common, and feared that Sanders might see him. The congregationwho could crane their necks sufficiently saw a black object, whichthey guessed to be the carter's hat, crawling along the hedge-top. For a moment it was motionless, and then it shot ahead. The rivalshad seen each other. It was now a hot race. Sam'l, dissembling nolonger, clattered up the common, becoming smaller and smaller to theon-lookers as he neared the top. More than one person in the galleryalmost rose to their feet in their excitement. Sam'l had it. No, Sanders was in front. Then the two figures disappeared from view. They seemed to run into each other at the top of the brae, and noone could say who was first. The congregation looked at one another. Some of them perspired. But the minister held on his course. 

Sam'l had just been in time to cut Sanders out. It was the weaver'ssaving that Sanders saw this when his rival turned the corner; forSam'l was sadly blown. Sanders took in the situation and gave in atonce. The last hundred yards of the distance he covered at hisleisure, and when he arrived at his destination he did not go in. Itwas a fine afternoon for the time of year, and he went round to havea look at the pig, about which T'nowhead was a little sinfullypuffed up. 

"Ay, " said Sanders, digging his fingers critically into the gruntinganimal; "quite so. "

"Grumph, " said the pig, getting reluctantly to his feet. 

"Ou, ay; yes, " said Sanders, thoughtfully. 

Then he sat down on the edge of the sty, and looked long andsilently at an empty bucket. But whether his thoughts were ofT'nowhead's Bell, whom he had lost forever, or of the food thefarmer fed his pig on, is not known. 

"Lord preserve's! Are ye no at the kirk?" cried Bell, nearlydropping the baby as Sam'l broke into the room, "Bell!" cried Sam'l. 

Then T'nowhead's Bell knew that her hour had come. 

"Sam'l, " she faltered. 

"Will ye hae's, Bell?" demanded Sam'l, glaring at her sheepishly. 

"Ay, " answered Bell. 

Sam'l fell into a chair. 

"Bring's a drink o' water, Bell, " he said. But Bell thought theoccasion required milk, and there was none in the kitchen. She wentout to the byre, still with the baby in her arms, and saw SandersElshioner sitting gloomily on the pig-sty. 

"Weel, Bell, " said Sanders. 

"I thocht ye'd been at the kirk, Sanders, " said Bell. 

Then there was a silence between them. 

"Has Sam'l speired ye, Bell?" asked Sanders stolidly. 

"Ay, " said Bell again, and this time there was a tear in her eye. Sanders was little better than an "orra man, " and Sam'l was aweaver, and yet--But it was too late now. Sanders gave the pig avicious poke with a stick, and when it had ceased to grunt, Bell wasback in the kitchen. She had forgotten about the milk, however, andSam'l only got water after all. 

In after days, when the story of Bell's wooing was told, there weresome who held that the circumstances would have almost justified thelassie in giving Sam'l the go-by. But these perhaps forgot that herother lover was in the same predicament as the accepted one--that ofthe two, indeed, he was the more to blame, for he set off toT'nowhead on the Sabbath of his own accord, while Sam'l only ranafter him. And then there is no one to say for certain whether Bellheard of her suitors' delinquencies until Lisbeth's return from thekirk. Sam'l could never remember whether he told her, and Bell wasnot sure whether, if he did, she took it in. Sanders was greatly indemand for weeks after to tell what he knew of the affair, butthough he was twice asked to tea to the manse among the trees, andsubjected thereafter to ministerial cross-examinations, this is allhe told. He remained at the pig-sty until Sam'l left the farm, whenhe joined him at the top of the brae, and they went home together. 

"It's yersel, Sanders, " said Sam'l. 

"It is so, Sam'l, " said Sanders. 

"Very cauld, " said Sam'l. 

"Blawy, " assented Sanders. 

After a pause--

"Sam'l, " said Sanders. 

"Ay. "

"I'm hearin' ye're to be mairit. "

"Ay. "

"Weel, Sam'l, she's a snod bit lassie. "

"Thank ye, " said Sam'l. 

"I had ance a kin' o' notion o' Bell mysel, " continued Sanders. 

"Ye had?"

"Yes, Sam'l; but I thocht better o't. "

"Hoo d'ye mean?" asked Sam'l, a little anxiously. 

"Weel, Sam'l, mairitch is a terrible responsibeelity. "

"It is so, " said Sam'l, wincing. 

"An' no the thing to tak up withoot conseederation. "

"But it's a blessed and honorable state, Sanders; ye've heard theminister on't. "

"They say, " continued the relentless Sanders, "'at the ministerdoesna get on sair wi' the wife himsel. "

"So they do, " cried Sam'l, with a sinking at the heart. 

"I've been telt, " Sanders went on, "'at gin ye can get the upperhan' o' the wife for a while at first, there's the mair chance o' aharmonious exeestence. "

"Bell's no the lassie, " said Sam'l appealingly, "to thwart her man. "

Sanders smiled. 

"D'ye think she is, Sanders?"

"Weel, Sam'l, I d'na want to fluster ye, but she's been ower langwi' Lisbeth Fargus no to hae learnt her ways. An a'body kins what alife T'nowhead has wi' her. "

"Guid sake, Sanders, hoo did ye no speak o' this afore?"

"I thocht ye kent o't, Sam'l. "

They had now reached the square, and the U. P. Kirk was coming out. The Auld Licht kirk would be half an hour yet. 

"But, Sanders, " said Sam'l, brightening up, "ye was on yer wy tospier her yer-sel. "

"I was, Sam'l, " said Sanders, "and I canna but be thankfu' ye wasower quick for's. "

"Gin't hadna been you, " said Sam'l, "I wid never hae thocht o't. "

"I'm sayin' naething agin Bell, " pursued the other, "but, man Sam'l, a body should be mair deleeberate in a thing o' the kind. "

"It was michty hurried, " said Sam'l, wo-fully. 

"It's a serious thing to spier a lassie, " said Sanders. 

"It's an awfu' thing, " said Sam'l. 

"But we'll hope for the best, " added Sanders in a hopeless voice. 

They were close to the Tenements now, and Sam'l looked as if he wereon his way to be hanged. 

"Sam'l!"

"Ay, Sanders. "

"Did ye--did ye kiss her, Sam'l?"

"Na. "

"Hoo?"

"There's was varra little time, Sanders. "

"Half an 'oor, " said Sanders. 

"Was there? Man Sanders, to tell ye the truth, I never thocht o't. "

Then the soul of Sanders Elshioner was filled with contempt forSam'l Dickie. 

The scandal blew over. At first it was expected that the ministerwould interfere to prevent the union, but beyond intimating from thepulpit that the souls of Sabbath-breakers were beyond praying for, and then praying for Sam'l and Sanders at great length, with a wordthrown in for Bell, he let things take their course. Some said itwas because he was always frightened lest his young men shouldintermarry with other denominations, but Sanders explained itdifferently to Sam'l. 

"I hav'na a word to say agin the minister, " he said; "they're gran'prayers, but, Sam'l, he's a mairit man himsel. "

"He's a' the better for that, Sanders, isna he?"

"Do ye no see, " asked Sanders compassionately, "'at he's tryin' tomat the best o't?"

"Oh, Sanders, man!" said Sam'l. 

"Cheer up, Sam'l, " said Sanders, "it'll sune be ower. "

Their having been rival suitors had not interfered with theirfriendship. On the contrary, while they had hitherto been mereacquaintances, they became inseparables as the wedding-day drewnear. It was noticed that they had much to say to each other, andthat when they could not get a room to themselves they wanderedabout together in the churchyard. When Sam'l had anything to tellBell he sent Sanders to tell it, and Sanders did as he was bid. There was nothing that he would not have done for Sam'l. 

The more obliging Sanders was, however, the sadder Sam'l grew. Henever laughed now on Saturdays, and sometimes his loom was silenthalf the day. Sam'l felt that Sanders' was the kindness of a friendfor a dying man. 

It was to be a penny wedding, and Lisbeth Fargus said it wasdelicacy that made Sam'l superintend the fitting-up of the barn bydeputy. Once he came to see it in person, but he looked so ill thatSanders had to see him home. This was on the Thursday afternoon, andthe wedding was fixed for Friday. 

"Sanders, Sanders, " said Sam'l, in a voice strangely unlike his own, "it'll a' be ower by this time the morn. "

"It will, " said Sanders. 

"If I had only kent her langer, " continued Sam'l. 

"It wid hae been safer, " said Sanders. 

"Did ye see the yallow floor in Bell's bonnet?" asked the acceptedswain. 

"Ay, " said Sanders reluctantly. 

"I'm dootin'--I'm sair dootin' she's but a flichty, light-heartedcrittur after a'. "

"I had ay my suspeecions o't, " said Sanders. 

"Ye hae kent her langer than me, " said Sam'l. 

"Yes, " said Sanders, "but there's nae gettin' at the heart o' women. Man, Sam'l, they're desperate cunnin'. "

"I'm dootin't; I'm sair dootin't. "

"It'll be a warnin' to ye, Sam'l, no to be in sic a hurry i' thefutur, " said Sanders. 

Sam'l groaned. 

"Ye'll be gaein up to the manse to arrange wi' the minister themorn's mornin', " continued Sanders, in a subdued voice. 

Sam'l looked wistfully at his friend. 

"I canna do't, Sanders, " he said, "I canna do't. "

"Ye maun, " said Sanders. 

"It's aisy to speak, " retorted Sam'l bitterly. 

"We have a' oor troubles, Sam'l, " said Sanders soothingly, "an'every man maun bear his ain burdens. Johnny Davie's wife's dead, an'he's no repinin'. "

"Ay, " said Sam'l, "but a death's no a mairitch. We hae haen deathsin our family too. "

"It may a' be for the best, " added Sanders, "an' there wid be amichty talk i' the hale country-side gin ye didna ging to theminister like a man. "

"I maum hae langer to think o't, " said Sam'l. 

"Bell's mairitch is the morn, " said Sanders decisively. 

Sam'l glanced up with a wild look in his eyes. 

"Sanders!" he cried. 

"Sam'l!"

"Ye hae been a guid friend to me, Sanders, in this sair affliction. "

"Nothing ava, " said Sanders; "dount mention'd. "

"But, Sanders, ye canna deny but what your rinnin oot o' the kirkthat awfu' day was at the bottom o'd a'. "

"It was so, " said Sanders bravely. 

"An' ye used to be fond o' Bell, Sanders. "

"I dinna deny't. "

"Sanders, laddie, " said Sam'l, bending forward and speaking in awheedling voice, "I aye thocht it was you she likit. "

"I had some sic idea mysel, " said Sanders. 

"Sanders, I canna think to pairt twa fowk sae weel suited to aneanither as you an' Bell, "

"Canna ye, Sam'l?"

"She wid mak ye a guid wife, Sanders, I hae studied her weel, andshe's a thrifty, douce, clever lassie. Sanders, there's no the likeo' her. Mony a time, Sanders, I hae said to mysel, 'There's a lassony man micht be prood to tak. ' A'body says the same, Sanders, There's nae risk ava, man: nane to speak o'. Tak her, laddie, takher, Sanders; it's a grand chance, Sanders. She's yours for thespierin'. I'll gie her up, Sanders. "

"Will ye, though?" said Sanders. 

"What d'ye think?" asked Sam'l. 

"If ye wid rayther, " said Sanders politely. 

"There's my han' on't, " said Sam'l. "Bless ye, Sanders; ye've been atrue frien' to me. "

Then they shook hands for the first time in their lives; and soonafterward Sanders struck up the brae to T'nowhead, Next morning Sanders Elshioner, who had been very busy the nightbefore, put on his Sabbath clothes and strolled up to the manse. 

"But--but where is Sam'l?" asked the minister; "I must see himself. "

"It's a new arrangement, " said Sanders. 

"What do you mean, Sanders?"

"Bell's to marry me, " explained Sanders. 

"But--but what does Sam'l say?"

"He's willin', " said Sanders. 

"And Bell?"

"She's willin', too. She prefers't. "

"It is unusual, " said the minister. 

"It's a' richt, " said Sanders. 

"Well, you know best, " said the minister. 

"You see the hoose was taen, at ony rate, " continued Sanders. "An'I'll juist ging in til't instead o' Sam'l. "

"Quite so. "

"An' I cudna think to disappoint the lassie. "

"Your sentiments do you credit, Sanders, " said the minister; "but Ihope you do not enter upon the blessed state of matrimony withoutfull consideration of its responsibilities. It is a seriousbusiness, marriage. "

"It's a' that, " said Sanders, "but I'm willin' to stan' the risk. "

So, as soon as it could be done, Sanders Elshioner took to wifeT'nowhead's Bell, and I remember seeing Sam'l Dickie trying to danceat the penny wedding. 

Years afterward it was said in Thrums that Sam'l had treated Bellbadly, but he was never sure about it himself. 

"It was a near thing--a michty near thing, " he admitted in thesquare. 

"They say, " some other weaver would remark, "'at it was you Bellliked best. "

"I d'na kin, " Sam'l would reply, "but there's nae doot the lassiewas fell fond o' me. Ou, a mere passin' fancy's ye micht say. "

CHAPTER IX. 

DAVIT LUNAN'S POLITICAL REMINISCENCES. 

When an election-day comes round now, it takes me back to the timeof 1832. I would be eight or ten year old at that time. JamesStrachan was at the door by five o'clock in the morning in hisSabbath clothes, by arrangement. We was to go up to the hill to seethem building the bonfire. Moreover, there was word that Mr. Scrimgour was to be there tossing pennies, just like at a marriage. I was awakened before that by my mother at the pans and bowls. Ihave always associated elections since that time with jelly-making;for just as my mother would fill the cups and tankers and bowls withjelly to save cans, she was emptying the pots and pans to make wayfor the ale and porter. James and me was to help to carry it homefrom the square--him in the pitcher and me in a flagon, because Iwas silly for my age and not strong in the arms. 

It was a very blowy morning, though the rain kept off, and what partof the bonfire had been built already was found scattered to thewinds. Before we rose a great mass of folk was getting the barrelsand things together again; but some of them was never recovered, andsuspicion pointed to William Geddes, it being well known thatWilliam would not hesitate to carry off anything if unobserved. Moreby token Chirsty Lamby had seen him rolling home a barrowful offirewood early in the morning, her having risen to hold cold waterin her mouth, being down with the toothache. When we got up to thehill everybody was making for the quarry, which being more shelteredwas now thought to be a better place for the bonfire. The masons hadstruck work, it being a general holiday in the whole countryside. There was a great commotion of people, all fine dressed and mostlywith glengarry bonnets; and me and James was well acquaint withthem, though mostly weavers and the like and not my father's equal. Mr. Scrimgour was not there himself; but there was a small activebody in his room as tossed the money for him fair enough; though notso liberally as was expected, being mostly ha'pence where pennieswas looked for. Such was not my father's opinion, and him and a fewothers only had a vote. He considered it was a waste of money givingto them that had no vote and so taking out of other folks' mouths;but the little man said it kept everybody in good-humor and made Mr. Scrimgour popular. He was an extraordinary affable man and veryspirity, running about to waste no time in walking, and gave me ashilling, saying to me to be a truthful boy and tell my father. Hedid not give James anything, him being an orphan, but clapped hishead and said he was a fine boy. 

The captain was to vote for the bill if he got in, the which he did. It was the captain was to give the ale and the porter in the squarelike a true gentleman. My father gave a kind of laugh when I let himsee my shilling, and said he would keep care of it for me; and sorryI was I let him get it, me never seeing the face of it again to thisday. Me and James was much annoyed with the women, especially KittyDavie, always pushing in when there was tossing, and tearing thevery ha'pence out of our hands: us not caring so much about themoney, but humiliated to see women mixing up in politics. By thetime the topmost barrel was on the bonfire there was a great smellof whiskey in the quarry, it being a confined place. My father hadbeen against the bonfire being in the quarry, arguing that the windon the hill would have carried off the smell of the whiskey; butPeter Tosh said they did not want the smell carried off; it would beagreeable to the masons for weeks to come. Except among the women, there was no fighting nor wrangling at the quarry, but all in finespirits. 

I misremember now whether it was Mr. Scrimgour or the captain thattook the fancy to my father's pigs; but it was this day, at anyrate, that the captain sent him the game-cock. Whichever one it wasthat fancied the litter of pigs, nothing would content him but tobuy them, which he did at thirty shillings each, being the bestbargain ever my father made. Nevertheless I'm thinking he waswindier of the cock. The captain, who was a local man when not withhis regiment, had the grandest collection of fighting-cocks in thecounty, and sometimes came into the town to try them against thetown cocks. I mind well the large wicker cage in which they wereconveyed from place to place, and never without the captain near athand. My father had a cock that beat all the other town cocks at thecock-fight at our school, which was superintended by the elder ofthe kirk to see fair play; but the which died of its wounds the nextday but one. This was a great grief to my father, it having beenchallenged to fight the captain's cock. Therefore it was veryconsiderate of the captain to make my father a present of his bird;father, in compliment to him, changing its name from the "Deil" tothe "Captain. "

During the forenoon, and I think until well on in the day, James andme was busy with the pitcher and the flagon. The proceedings in thesquare, however, was not so well conducted as in the quarry, many ofthe folk there assembled showing a mean and grasping spirit. Thecaptain had given orders that there was to be no stint of ale andporter, and neither there was; but much of it lost through hastiness. Great barrels was hurled into the middle of the square, where thecountry wives sat with their eggs and butter on market-day, and wasquickly stove in with an axe or paving-stone or whatever came handy. Sometimes they would break into the barrel at different points; andthen, when they tilted it up to get the ale out at one hole, it gushedout at the bottom till the square was flooded. My mother was fairdisgusted when told by me and James of the waste of good liquor. Itis gospel truth I speak when I say I mind well of seeing Singer Daviecatching the porter in a pan as it ran down the sire, and when thepan was full to overflowing, putting his mouth to the stream anddrinking till he was as full as the pan. Most of the men, however, stuck to the barrels, the drink running in the street being ale andporter mixed, and left it to the women and the young folk to do thecarrying. Susy M'Queen brought as many pans as she could collect ona barrow, and was filling them all with porter, rejecting the ale;but indignation was aroused against her, and as fast as she filledthe others emptied. 

My father scorned to go to the square to drink ale and porter withthe crowd, having the election on his mind and him to vote. Nevertheless he instructed me and James to keep up a brisk tradewith the pans, and run back across the gardens in case we metdishonest folk in the streets who might drink the ale. Also, said myfather, we was to let the excesses of our neighbors be a warning insobriety to us; enough being as good as a feast, except when you canstore it up for the winter. By and by my mother thought it was notsafe me being in the streets with so many wild men about, and wouldhave sent James himself, him being an orphan and hardier; but this Idid not like, but, running out, did not come back for long enough. There is no doubt that the music was to blame for firing the men'sblood, and the result most disgraceful fighting with no object inview. There was three fiddlers and two at the flute, most of themblind, but not the less dangerous on that account; and they kept thetown in a ferment, even playing the country-folk home to the farms, followed by bands of towns-folk. They were a quarrelsome set, theploughmen and others; and it was generally admitted in the town thattheir overbearing behavior was responsible for the fights. I mindthem being driven out of the square, stones flying thick; also somestand-up fights with sticks, and others fair enough with fists. Theworst fight I did not see. It took place in a field. At first it wasonly between two who had been miscalling one another; but there wasmany looking on, and when the town man was like getting the worst ofit the others set to, and a most heathenish fray with no sense in itensued. One man had his arm broken. I mind Hobart the bellman goingabout ringing his bell and telling all persons to get within doors;but little attention was paid to him, it being notorious that Sneckyhad had a fight earlier in the day himself. 

When James was fighting in the field, according to his own account, I had the honor of dining with the electors who voted for thecaptain, him paying all expenses. It was a lucky accident my mothersending me to the town-house, where the dinner came off, to try toget my father home at a decent hour, me having a remarkable powerover him when in liquor, but at no other time. They were very jolly, however, and insisted on my drinking the captain's health and eatingmore than was safe. My father got it next day from my mother forthis; and so would I myself, but it was several days before I leftmy bed, completely knocked up as I was with the excitement and onething or another. The bonfire, which was built to celebrate theelection of Mr. Scrimgour, was set ablaze, though I did not see it, in honor of the election of the captain; it being thought a pity tolose it, as no doubt it would have been. That is about all Iremember of the celebrated election of '32 when the Reform Bill waspassed. 

CHAPTER X. 

A VERY OLD FAMILY. 

They were a very old family with whom Snecky Hobart, the bellman, lodged. Their favorite dissipation, when their looms had come torest, was a dander through the kirk-yard. They dressed for it: thethree young ones in their rusty blacks; the patriarch in his oldblue coat, velvet knee-breeches, and broad blue bonnet; and often ofan evening I have met them moving from grave to grave. By this timethe old man was nearly ninety, and the young ones averaged sixty. They read out the inscriptions on the tombstones in a solemn drone, and their father added his reminiscences. He never failed them. Since the beginning of the century he had not missed a funeral, andhis children felt that he was a great example. Sire and sonsreturned from the cemetery invigorated for their daily labors. Ifone of them happened to start a dozen yards behind the others, henever thought of making up the distance. If his foot struck againsta stone, he came to a dead stop; when he discovered that he hadstopped, he set off again. 

A high wall shut off this old family's house and garden, from theclatter of Thrums, a wall that gave Snecky some trouble before hewent to live within it. I speak from personal knowledge. One springmorning, before the school-house was built, I was assisting thepatriarch to divest the gaunt garden pump of its winter suit ofstraw. I was taking a drink, I remember, my palm over the mouth ofthe wooden spout and my mouth at the gimlet-hole above, when a legappeared above the corner of the wall against which the hen-housewas built. Two hands followed, clutching desperately at the unevenstones. Then the leg worked as if it were turning a grindstone, andnext moment Snecky was sitting breathlessly on the dyke. From thisto the hen-house, whose roof was of "divets, " the descent wascomparatively easy, and a slanting board allowed the daring bellmanto slide thence to the ground. He had come on business, and havingtalked it over slowly with the old man he turned to depart. Thoughhe was a genteel man, I heard him sigh heavily as, with the remark, "Ay, weel, I'll be movin' again, " he began to rescale the wall. Thepatriarch, twisted round the pump, made no reply, so I ventured tosuggest to the bellman that he might find the gate easier. "Is therea gate?" said Snecky, in surprise at the resources of civilization. I pointed it out to him, and he went his way chuckling. The old mantold me that he had sometimes wondered at Snecky's mode of approach, but it had not struck him to say anything. Afterward, when thebellman took up his abode there, they discussed the matter heavily. 

Hobart inherited both his bell and his nickname from his father, whowas not a native of Thrums. He came from some distant part where thepeople speak of snecking the door, meaning shut it. In Thrums theword used is steek, and sneck seemed to the inhabitants so droll andridiculous that Hobart got the name of Snecky. His son left Thrumsat the age of ten for the distant farm of Tirl, and did not returnuntil the old bellman's death, twenty years afterward; but the firstremark he overheard on entering the kirk-wynd was a conjecture flungacross the street by a gray-haired crone, that he would be "littleSnecky come to bury auld Snecky. "

The father had a reputation in his day for "crying" crimes he wassuspected of having committed himself, but the Snecky I knew had toohigh a sense of his own importance for that. On great occasions, such as the loss of little Davy Dundas, or when a tattie roup had tobe cried, he was even offensively inflated: but ordinaryannouncements, such as the approach of a flying stationer, the roupof a deceased weaver's loom, or the arrival in Thrums of a cart-loadof fine "kebec" cheeses, he treated as the merest trifles. I seestill the bent legs of the snuffy old man straightening to thetinkle of his bell, and the smirk with which he let the curiouspopulace gather round him. In one hand he ostentatiously displayedthe paper on which what he had to cry was written, but, like theminister, he scorned to "read. " With the bell carefully tucked underhis oxter he gave forth his news in a rasping voice that broke nowand again into a squeal. Though Scotch in his unofficialconversation, he was believed to deliver himself on public occasionsin the finest English. When trotting from place to place with hisnews he carried his bell by the tongue as cautiously as if it were aflagon of milk. 

Snecky never allowed himself to degenerate into a mere machine. Hisproclamations were provided by those who employed him, but his soulwas his own. Having cried a potato roup he would sometimes add aword of warning, such as, "I wudna advise ye, lads, to hae ony-thingto do wi' thae tatties; they're diseased. " Once, just before thecattle market, he was sent round by a local laird to announce thatany drover found taking the short cut to the hill through thegrounds of Muckle Plowy would be prosecuted to the utmost limits ofthe law. The people were aghast. "Hoots, lads, " Snecky said; "dinnafash yoursels. It's juist a haver o' the grieve's. " One of Hobart'sways of striking terror into evil-doers was to announce, when cryinga crime, that he himself knew perfectly well who the culprit was. "Isee him brawly, " he would say, "standing afore me, an' if he disnainstantly mak retribution, I am determined this very day to mak apublic example of him. "

Before the time of the Burke and Hare murders Snecky's father wassent round Thrums to proclaim the startling news that a grave in thekirk-yard had been tampered with. The "resurrectionist" scare was atits height then, and the patriarch, who was one of the men in Thrumspaid to watch new graves in the night-time, has often told thestory. The town was in a ferment as the news spread, and there werefierce suspicious men among Hobart's hearers who already had therifler of graves in their eye. 

He was a man who worked for the farmers when they required an extrahand, and loafed about the square when they could do without him. Noone had a good word for him, and lately he had been flush of money. That was sufficient. There was a rush of angry men through the"pend" that led to his habitation, and he was dragged, panting andterrified, to the kirk-yard before he understood what it all meant. To the grave they hurried him, and almost without a word handed hima spade. The whole town gathered round the spot--a sullen crowd, thewomen only breaking the silence with their sobs, and the childrenclinging to their gowns. The suspected resurrectionist understoodwhat was wanted of him, and, flinging off his jacket, began toreopen the grave. Presently the spade struck upon wood, and by andby part of the coffin came in view. That was nothing, for theresurrectionists had a way of breaking the coffin at one end anddrawing out the body with tongs. The digger knew this. He broke theboards with the spade and revealed an arm. The people convinced, hedropped the arm savagely, leaped out of the grave and went his way, leaving them to shovel back the earth themselves. 

There was humor in the old family as well as in their lodger. Ifound this out slowly. They used to gather round their peat fire inthe evening, after the poultry had gone to sleep on the kitchenrafters, and take off their neighbors. None of them ever laughed;but their neighbors did afford them subject for gossip, and the oldman was very sarcastic over other people's old-fashioned ways. Whenone of the family wanted to go out he did it gradually. He would besitting "into the fire" browning his corduroy trousers, and he wouldget up slowly. Then he gazed solemnly before him for a time, andafter that, if you watched him narrowly, you would see that he wasreally moving to the door. Another member of the family took thevacant seat with the same precautions. Will'um, the eldest, has agun, which customarily stands behind the old eight-day clock; and hetakes it with him to the garden to shoot the blackbirds. Long beforeWill'um is ready to let fly, the blackbirds have gone away; and sothe gun is never, never fired; but there is a determined look onWill'um's face when he returns from the garden. 

In the stormy days of his youth the old man had been a "Black Nib. "The Black Nibs were the persons who agitated against the French war;and the public feeling against them ran strong and deep. In Thrumsthe local Black Nibs were burned in effigy, and whenever they puttheir heads out of doors they risked being stoned. Even where theauthorities were unprejudiced they were helpless to interfere; andas a rule they were as bitter against the Black Nibs as the populacethemselves. Once the patriarch was running through the street with ascore of the enemy at his heels, and the bailie, opening his window, shouted to them, "Stane the Black Nib oot o' the toon!"

When the patriarch was a young man he was a follower of pleasure. This is the one thing about him that his family have never been ableto understand. A solemn stroll through the kirk-yard was notsufficient relaxation in those riotous times, after a hard day atthe loom; and he rarely lost a chance of going to see a man hanged. There was a good deal of hanging in those days; and yet theauthorities had an ugly way of reprieving condemned men on whom thesight-seers had been counting. An air of gloom would gather on myold friend's countenance when he told how he and his contemporariesin Thrums trudged every Saturday for six weeks to the county town, many miles distant, to witness the execution of some criminal inwhom they had local interest, and who, after disappointing themagain and again, was said to have been bought off by a friend. Hiscrime had been stolen entrance into a house in Thrums by thechimney, with intent to rob; and though this old-fashioned familydid not see it, not the least noticeable incident in the scrimmagethat followed was the prudence of the canny housewife. When she sawthe legs coming down the lum, she rushed to the kail-pot which wason the fire and put on the lid. She confessed that this was not doneto prevent the visitor's scalding himself, but to save the broth. 

The old man was repeated in his three sons. They told his storiesprecisely as he did himself, taking as long in the telling andmaking the points in exactly the same way. By and by they will cometo think that they themselves were of those past times. Already theyoung ones look like contemporaries of their father. 

CHAPTER XI

LITTLE RATHIE'S "BURAL. "

Devout-under-difficulties would have been the name of Lang Tammashad he been of Covenanting times. So I thought one wintry afternoon, years before I went to the school-house, when he dropped in to askthe pleasure of my company to the farmer of Little Rathie's "bural. "As a good Auld Licht, Tammas reserved his swallow-tail coat and "lumhat" (chimney-pot) for the kirk and funerals; but the coat wouldhave flapped villanously, to Tammas' eternal ignominy, had he forone rash moment relaxed his hold of the bottom button, and it wasonly by walking sideways, as horses sometimes try to do, that thehat could be kept at the angle of decorum. Let it not he thoughtthat Tammas had asked me to Little Rathie's funeral on his ownresponsibility. Burials were among the few events to break themonotony of an Auld Licht winter, and invitations were as muchsought after as cards to my lady's dances in the south. This hadbeen a fair average season for Tammas, though of his four burialsone had been a bairn's--a mere bagatelle; but had it not been forthe death of Little Rathie I would probably not have been out thatyear at all. 

The small farm of Little Rathie lies two miles from Thrums, andTammas and I trudged manfully through the snow, adding to ournumbers as we went. The dress of none differed materially from theprecentor's, and the general effect was of septuagenarians in eachother's best clothes, though living in low-roofed houses had bentmost of them before their time. By a rearrangement of garments, suchas making Tammas change coat, hat, and trousers with Cragiebuckle, Silva McQueen, and Sam'l Wilkie respectively, a dexterous tailormight perhaps have supplied each with a "fit. " The talk was chieflyof Little Rathie, and sometimes threatened to become animated, whenanother mourner would fall in and restore the more fitting gloom. 

"Ay, ay, " the new-comer would say, by way of responding to the sobersalutation, "Ay, Johnny. " Then there was silence, but for the"gluck" with which we lifted our feet from the slush. 

"So Little Rathie's been ta'en awa', " Johnny would venture to say byand by. 

"He's gone, Johnny; ay, man, he is so. "

"Death must come to all, " some one would waken up to murmur. 

"Ay, " Lang Tammas would reply, putting on the coping-stone, "in themorning we are strong and in the evening we are cut down. "

"We are so, Tammas; ou ay, we are so; we're here the wan day an'gone the neist. "

"Little Rathie wasna a crittur I took till; no, I canna say he was, "said Bowie Haggart, so called because his legs described a parabola, "but be maks a vary creeditable corp [corpse]. I will say that forhim. It's wonderfu' hoo death improves a body. Ye cudna hae said asLittle Rathie was a weel-faured man when he was i' the flesh. "

Bowie was the wright, and attended burials in his official capacity. He had the gift of words to an uncommon degree, and I do not forgethis crushing blow at the reputation of the poet Burns, as deliveredunder the auspices of the Thrums Literary Society. "I am ofopeenion, " said Bowie, "that the works of Burns is of an immoraltendency. I have not read them myself, but such is my opeenion. "

"He was a queer stock, Little Rathie, michty queer, " said TammasHaggart, Bowie's brother, who was a queer stock himself, but was notaware of it; "but, ou, I'm thinkin' the wife had something to dowi't. She was ill to manage, an' Little Rathie hadna the way o' thewomen. He hadna the knack o' managin' them's yo micht say--no, Little Rathie hadna the knack. "

"They're kittle cattle, the women, " said the farmer ofCraigiebuckle--son of the Craigiebuckle mentioned elsewhere--alittle gloomily. "I've often thocht maiterimony is no onlike thelucky bags th' auld wifies has at the muckly. There's prizes an'blanks baith inside, but, losh, ye're far frae sure what ye'll drawoot when ye put in yer han'. "

"Ou, weel, " said Tammas complacently, "there's truth in what ye say, but the women can be managed if ye have the knack. "

"Some o' them, " said Cragiebuckle woefully. 

"Ye had yer wark wi' the wife yersel, Tammas, so ye had, " observedLang Tammas, unbending to suit his company. 

"Ye're speakin' aboot the bit wife's bural, " said Tammas Haggart, with a chuckle; "ay, ay, that brocht her to reason. "

Without much pressure Haggart retold a story known to the majorityof his hearers. He had not the "knack" of managing women apparentlywhen he married, for he and his gypsy wife "agreed ill thegither" atfirst. Once Chirsty left him and took up her abode in a house justacross the wynd. Instead of routing her out, Tammas, without takingany one into his confidence, determined to treat Chirsty as dead, and celebrate her decease in a "lyke wake"--a last wake. These wakeswere very general in Thrums in the old days, though they had ceasedto be common by the date of Little Rathie's death. For three daysbefore the burial the friends and neighbors of the mourners wereinvited into the house to partake of food and drink by the side ofthe corpse. The dead lay on chairs covered with a white sheet. Dirges were sung and the deceased was extolled, but when night camethe lights were extinguished and the corpse was left alone. On themorning of the funeral tables were spread with a white cloth outsidethe house, and food and drink were placed upon them. No neighborcould pass the tables without paying his respects to the dead; andeven when the house was in a busy, narrow thoroughfare, this part ofthe ceremony was never omitted. Tammas did not give Chirsty a wakeinside the house; but one Friday morning--it was market-day, and thesquare was consequently full--it went through the town that thetables were spread before his door. Young and old collected, wandering round the house, and Tammas stood at the tables in hisblacks inviting every one to eat and drink. He was pressed to tellwhat it meant; but nothing could be got from him except that hiswife was dead. At times he pressed his hands to his heart, and thenhe would make wry faces, trying hard to cry. Chirsty watched from awindow across the street, until she perhaps began to fear that shereally was dead. Unable to stand it any longer, she rushed out intoher husband's arms, and shortly afterward she could have been seendismantling the tables. 

"She's gone this fower year, " Tammas said, when he had finished hisstory, "but up to the end I had no more trouble wi' Chirsty. No, Ihad the knack o' her. '

"I've heard tell, though, " said the sceptical Craigiebuckle, "asChirsty only cam back to ye because she cudna bear to see the fowkmakkin' sae free wi' the whiskey. "

"I mind hoo she bottled it up at ance and drove the laddies awa', "said Bowie, "an' I hae seen her after that, Tammas, giein' ye up yerfut an' you no sayin' a word. "

"Ou, ay, " said the wife-tamer, in the tone of a man who could affordto be generous in trifles, "women maun talk, an' a man hasna ayetime to conterdick them, but frae that day I had the knack o'Chirsty. "

"Donal Elshioner's was a vary seemilar case, " broke in Snecky Hobartshrilly. "Maist o' ye'll mind 'at Donal was michty plagueit wi' adrucken wife. Ay, weel, wan day Bowie's man was carryin' a coffinpast Donal's door, and Donal an' the wife was there. Says Donal, 'Put doon yer coffin, my man, an' tell's wha it's for. ' The laddierests the coffin on its end, an' says he, 'It's for DavieFairbrother's guid-wife. ' 'Ay, then, ' says Donal, 'tak it awa', takit awa' to Davie, an' tell 'im as ye kin a man wi' a wife 'at wid beglad to neifer [exchange] wi' him. ' Man, that terrified Donal'swife; it did so. "

As we delved up the twisting road between two fields that leads tothe farm of Little Rathie, the talk became less general, and anothermourner who joined us there was told that the farmer was gone. 

"We must all fade as a leaf, " said Lang Tammas. 

"So we maun, so we maun, " admitted the new-comer. "They say, " headded, solemnly, "as Little Rathie has left a full teapot. "

The reference was to the safe in which the old people in thedistrict stored their gains. 

"He was thrifty, " said Tammas Haggart, "an' shrewd, too, was LittleRathie. I mind Mr. Dishart admonishin' him for no attendin' aspecial weather service i' the kirk, when Finny an' Lintool, the twaadjoinin' farmers, baith attendit. 'Ou, ' says Little Rathie, 'Ithocht to mysel, thinks I, if they get rain for prayin' for't onFinny an' Lintool, we're bound to get the benefit o't on LittleRathie. '"

"Tod, " said Snecky, "there's some sense in that; an' what says theminister?"

"I d'na kin what he said, " admitted Haggart; "but he took LittleRathie up to the manse, an' if ever I saw a man lookin' sma', it wasLittle Rathie when he cam oot. "

The deceased had left behind him a daughter (herself now known asLittle Rathie), quite capable of attending to the ramshackle "butand ben;" and I remember how she nipped off Tammas' consolations togo out and feed the hens. To the number of about twenty we assembledround the end of the house to escape the bitter wind, and here Ilost the precentor, who, as an Auld Licht elder, joined the chiefmourners inside. The post of distinction at a funeral is near thecoffin; but it is not given to every one to be a relative of thedeceased, and there is always much competition and genteellyconcealed disappointment over the few open vacancies. The window ofthe room was decently veiled, but the mourners outside knew what washappening within, and that it was not all prayer, neither mourning. A few of the more reverent uncovered their heads at intervals; butit would be idle to deny that there was a feeling that LittleRathie's daughter was favoring Tammas and others somewhatinvidiously. Indeed, Robbie Gibruth did not scruple to remark thatshe had made "an inauspeecious beginning. " Tammas Haggart, who wasmelancholy when not sarcastic, though he brightened up wonderfullyat funerals, reminded Robbie that disappointment is the lot of manon his earthly pilgrimage; but Haggart knew who were to be invitedback after the burial to the farm, and was inclined, to make much ofhis position. The secret would doubtless have been wormed from himhad not public attention been directed into another channel. Aprayer was certainly being offered up inside; but the voice was notthe voice of the minister. 

Lang Tammas told me afterward that it had seemed at one time "varyqueistionable" whether Little Rathie would be buried that day atall. The incomprehensible absence of Mr. Dishart (afterwardsatisfactorily explained) had raised the unexpected question of thelegality of a burial in a case where the minister had not prayedover the "corp. " There had even been an indulgence in hot words, and the Reverend Alexander Kewans, a "stickit minister, " but not ofthe Auld Licht persuasion, had withdrawn in dudgeon on hearingTammas asked to conduct the ceremony instead of himself. But, greatas Tammas was on religious questions, a pillar of the Auld Lichtkirk, the Shorter Catechism at his finger-ends, a sad want of wordsat the very time when he needed them most incapacitated him forprayer in public, and it was providential that Bowie proved himselfa man of parts. But Tammas tells me that the wright grossly abusedhis position, by praying at such length that Craigiebuckle fellasleep, and the mistress had to rise and hang the pot on the firehigher up the joist, lest its contents should burn before the returnfrom the funeral. Loury grew the sky, and more and more anxious theface of Little Rathie's daughter, and still Bowie prayed on. Had itnot been for the impatience of the precentor and the grumbling ofthe mourners outside, there is no saying when the remains would havebeen lifted through the "bole, " or little window. 

Hearses had hardly come in at this time, and the coffin was carriedby the mourners on long stakes. The straggling procession ofpedestrians behind wound its slow way in the waning light to thekirk-yard, showing startlingly black against the dazzling snow; andit was not until the earth rattled on the coffin-lid that LittleRathie's nearest male relative seemed to remember his last mournfulduty to the dead. Sidling up to the favored mourners, he remarkedcasually and in the most emotionless tone he could assume; "They'reexpec'in' ye to stap doon the length o' Little Rathie noo. Aye, aye, he's gone. Na, na, nae refoosal, Da-avit; ye was aye a guid friendtill him, an' it's onything a body can do for him noo. "

Though the uninvited slunk away sorrowfully, the entertainmentprovided at Auld Licht houses of mourning was characteristic of astern and sober sect. They got to eat and to drink to the extent, asa rule, of a "lippy" of short bread and a "brew" of toddy; but openBibles lay on the table, and the eyes of each were on his neighborsto catch them transgressing, and offer up a prayer for them on thespot. Ay me! there is no Bowie nowadays to fill an absent minister'sshoes. 

CHAPTER XII. 

A LITERARY CLUB. 

The ministers in the town did not hold with literature. When themost notorious of the clubs met in the town-house under thepresidentship of Gravia Ogilvy, who was no better than a poacher, and was troubled in his mind because writers called Pope a poet, there was frequently a wrangle over the question, "Is literaturenecessarily immoral?" It was a fighting club, and on Friday nightsthe few respectable, God-fearing members dandered to the town-house, as if merely curious to have another look at the building. If LangTammas, who was dead against letters, was in sight they wanderedoff, but when there were no spies abroad they slunk up the stair. The attendance was greatest on dark nights, though Gavin himself andsome other characters would have marched straight to the meeting inbroad daylight. Tammas Haggart, who did not think much of Milton'sdevil, had married a gypsy woman for an experiment, and the Coat ofMany Colors did not know where his wife was. As a rule, however, themembers were wild bachelors. When they married they had to settledown. 

Gavin's essay on Will'um Pitt, the Father of the Taxes, led to theclub's being bundled out of the town-house, where people said itshould never have been allowed to meet. There was a terrible towsewhen Tammas Haggart then disclosed the secret of Mr. Byars' supposedapproval of the club. Mr. Byars was the Auld Licht minister whom Mr. Dishart succeeded, and it was well known that he had advised theauthorities to grant the use of the little town-house to the club onFriday evenings. As he solemnly warned his congregation againstattending the meetings, the position he had taken up created talk, and Lang Tammas called at the manse with Sanders Whamond toremonstrate. The minister, however, harangued them on theirsinfulness in daring to question the like of him, and they had toretire vanquished though dissatisfied. Then came the disclosures ofTammas Haggart, who was never properly secured by the Auld Lichtsuntil Mr. Dishart took him in hand. It was Tammas who wroteanonymous letters to Mr. Byars about the scarlet woman, and, strangeto say, this led to the club's being allowed to meet in the town-house. The minister, after many days, discovered who his correspondent was, and succeeded in inveigling the stone-breaker to the manse. There, with the door snibbed, he opened out on Tammas, who, after his usualmanner when hard pressed, pretended to be deaf. This sudden fit ofdeafness so exasperated the minister that he flung a book at Tammas. The scene that followed was one that few Auld Licht manses can havewitnessed. According to Tammas, the book had hardly reached the floorwhen the minister turned white. Tammas picked up the missile. It wasa Bible. The two men looked at each other. Beneath the window Mr. Byars'children were prattling. His wife was moving about in the next room, little thinking what had happened. The minister held out his hand forthe Bible, but Tammas shook his head, and then Mr. Byars shrank intoa chair. Finally, it was arranged that if Tammas kept the affair tohimself the minister would say a good word to the bailie about theliterary club. After that the stone-breaker used to go from house tohouse, twisting his mouth to the side and remarking that he could tellsuch a tale of Mr. Byars as would lead to a split in the kirk. When thetown-house was locked on the club Tammas spoke out, but though thescandal ran from door to door, as I have seen a pig in a fluster do, theminister did not lose his place. Tammas preserved the Bible, andshowed it complacently to visitors as the present he got from Mr. Byars. The minister knew this, and it turned his temper sour. Tammas' proud moments, after that, were when he passed the minister. 

Driven from the town-house, literature found a table with formsround it in a tavern hard by, where the club, lopped of its mostrespectable members, kept the blinds down and talked openly ofShakespeare. It was a low-roofed room, with pieces of lime hangingfrom the ceiling and peeling walls. The floor had a slope thattended to fling the debater forward, and its boards, lying loose onan uneven foundation, rose and looked at you as you crossed theroom. In winter, when the meetings were held regularly everyfortnight, a fire of peat, sod, and dross lit up the curious companywho sat round the table shaking their heads over Shelley'smysticism, or requiring to be called to order because they would notwait their turn to deny an essayist's assertion, that Berkeley'sstyle was superior to David Hume's. Davit Hume, they said, and WattyScott. Burns was simply referred to as Rob or Robbie. 

There was little drinking at these meetings, for the members knewwhat they were talking about, and your mind had to gallop to keep upwith the flow of reasoning. Thrums is rather a remarkable town. There are scores and scores of houses in it that have sent theirsons to college (by what a struggle!), some to make their way to thefront in their professions, and others, perhaps, despite theirbroadcloth, never to be a patch on their parents. In that literaryclub there were men of a reading so wide and catholic that it mightput some graduates of the universities to shame, and of an intellectso keen that had it not had a crook in it their fame would havecrossed the county. Most of them had but a threadbare existence, foryou weave slowly with a Wordsworth open before you, and some werestrange Bohemians (which does not do in Thrums), yet others wanderedinto the world and compelled it to recognize them. There is a Londonbarrister whose father belonged to the club. Not many years ago aman died on the staff of the _Times_, who, when he was a weavernear Thrums, was one of the club's prominent members. He taughthimself shorthand by the light of a cruizey, and got a post on aPerth paper, afterward on the _Scotsman_ and the _Witness_, and finallyon the _Times_. Several other men of his type had a history worthreading, but it is not for me to write. Yet I may say that there isstill at least one of the original members of the club left behind inThrums to whom some of the literary dandies might lift their hats. 

Gavin Ogilvy I only knew as a weaver and a poacher: a lank, long-armedman, much bent from crouching in ditches whence he watched his snares. To the young he was a romantic figure, because they saw him frequentlyin the fields with his call-birds tempting siskins, yellow yites, andUnties to twigs which he had previously smeared with lime. He made thelime from the tough roots of holly; sometimes from linseed, oil, whichis boiled until thick, when it is taken out of the pot and drawn andstretched with the hands like elastic. Gavin was also a famoushare-snarer at a time when the ploughman looked upon this form ofpoaching as his perquisite. The snare was of wire, so constructed thatthe hare entangled itself the more when trying to escape, and it wasplaced across the little roads through the fields to which hares confinethemselves, with a heavy stone attached to it by a string. Once Gavincaught a toad (fox) instead of a hare, and did not discover his mistakeuntil it had him by the teeth. He was not able to weave for two months. The grouse-netting was more lucrative and more exciting, and womenengaged in it with their husbands. It is told of Gavin that he was onone occasion chased by a game-keeper over moor and hill for twentymiles, and that by and by when the one sank down exhausted so did theother. They would sit fifty yards apart, glaring at each other. Thepoacher eventually escaped. This, curious as it may seem, is the manwhose eloquence at the club has not been forgotten in fifty years. "Thusdid he stand, " I have been told recently, "exclaiming in languagesublime that the soul shall bloom in immortal youth through the ruinand wrack of time. "

Another member read to the club an account of his journey toLochnagar, which was afterward published in _Chambers'sJournal_. He was celebrated for his descriptions of scenery, andwas not the only member of the club whose essays got into print. More memorable perhaps was an itinerant match-seller known to Thrumsand the surrounding towns as the literary spunk-seller. He was awizened, shivering old man, often barefooted, wearing at the best athin, ragged coat that had been black but was green-brown with age, and he made his spunks as well as sold them. He brought Bacon andAdam Smith into Thrums, and he loved to recite long screeds fromSpenser, with a running commentary on the versification and theluxuriance of the diction. Of Jamie's death I do not care to write. He went without many a dinner in order to buy a book. 

The Coat of Many Colors and Silva Robbie were two street preacherswho gave the Thrums ministers some work. They occasionally appearedat the club. The Coat of Many Colors was so called because he wore agarment consisting of patches of cloth of various colors sewedtogether. It hung down to his heels. He may have been cracked ratherthan inspired, but he was a power in the square where he preached, the women declaring that he was gifted by God. An awe filled eventhe men when he admonished them for using strong language, for atsuch a time he would remind them of the woe which fell upon TibbieMason. Tibbie had been notorious in her day for evil-speaking, especially for her free use of the word handless, which she flung ahundred times in a week at her man, and even at her old mother. Herpunishment was to have a son born without hands. The Coat of ManyColors also told of the liar who exclaimed, "If this is not gospeltrue may I stand here forever, " and who is standing on that spotstill, only nobody knows where it is. George Wishart was the Coat'shero, and often he has told in the square how Wishart saved Dundee. It was the time when the plague lay over Scotland, and in Dundeethey saw it approaching from the West in the form of a great blackcloud. They fell on their knees and prayed, crying to the cloud topass them by, and while they prayed it came nearer. Then they lookedaround for the most holy man among them, to intervene with God ontheir behalf. All eyes turned to George Wishart, and he stood up, stretching his arms to the cloud, and prayed, and it rolled back. Thus Dundee was saved from the plague, but when Wishart ended hisprayer he was alone, for the people had all returned to their homes. Less of a genuine man than the Coat of Many Colors was Silva Robbie, who had horrid fits of laughing in the middle of his prayers, andeven fell in a paroxysm of laughter from the chair on which hestood. In the club he said, things not to be borne, though logicalup to a certain point. 

Tammas Haggart was the most sarcastic member of the club, beingcelebrated for his sarcasm far and wide. It was a remarkable thingabout him, often spoken of, that if you went to Tammas with astranger and asked him to say a sarcastic thing that the man mighttake away as a specimen, he could not do it. "Na, na, " Tammas wouldsay, after a few trials, referring to sarcasm, "she's no a critturto force. Ye maun lat her tak her ain time. Sometimes she's dry likethe pump, an' syne, again, oot she comes in a gush. " The mostsarcastic thing the stone-breaker ever said was frequently marvelledover in Thrums, both before and behind his face, but unfortunatelyno one could ever remember what it was. The subject, however, wasCha Tamson's potato pit. There is little doubt that it was a fit ofsarcasm that induced Tammas to marry a gypsy lassie. Mr. Byars wouldnot join them, so Tammas had himself married by Jimmy Pawse, the gaylittle gypsy king, and after that the minister remarried them. Themarriage over the tongs is a thing to scandalize any well-brought-upperson, for before he joined the couple's hands Jimmy jumped aboutin a startling way, uttering wild gibberish, and after the ceremonywas over there was rough work, with incantations and blowing onpipes. Tammas always held that this marriage turned out better thanhe had expected, though he had his trials like other married men. Among them was Chirsty's way of climbing on to the dresser to get atthe higher part of the plate-rack. One evening I called in to have asmoke with the stone-breaker, and while we were talking Chirstyclimbed the dresser. The next moment she was on the floor on herback, wailing, but Tammas smoked on imperturbably. "Do you not seewhat has happened, man?" I cried. "Ou, " said Tammas, "she's ayefa'in aff the dresser. "

Of the school-masters who were at times members of the club, Mr. Dickie was the ripest scholar, but my predecessor at the schoolhousehad a way of sneering at him that was as good as sarcasm. When theywere on their legs at the same time, asking each other passionatelyto be calm, and rolling out lines from Homer that made the inn-keeperlook fearfully to the fastenings of the door, their heads very nearlycame together, although the table was between them. The old dominiehad an advantage in being the shorter man, for he could hammer on thetable as he spoke, while gaunt Mr. Dickie had to stoop to it. Mr. McRittie's arguments were a series of nails that he knocked into thetable, and he did it in a workmanlike manner. Mr. Dickie, though hekept firm on his feet, swayed his body until by and by his head wasrotating in a large circle. The mathematical figure he made was acone revolving on its apex. Gavin's reinstalment in the chair yearafter year was made by the disappointed dominie the subject of sometart verses which be called an epode, but Gavin crushed him when theywere read before the club. "Satire, " he said, "is a legitimate weapon, used with michty effect by Swift, Sammy Butler, and others, and Idount object to being made the subject of creeticism. It has oftenbeen called a t'nife [knife], but them as is not used to t'nives cutstheir hands, and ye'll a' observe that Mr. McRittie's fingers isbleedin'. " All eyes were turned upon the dominie's hand, and thoughhe pocketed it smartly several members had seen the blood. The dominiewas a rare visitor at the club after that, though he outlived poorMr. Dickie by many years. Mr. Dickie was a teacher in Tilliedrum, buthe was ruined by drink. He wandered from town to town, reciting Greekand Latin poetry to any one who would give him a dram, and sometimeshe wept and moaned aloud in the street, crying, "Poor Mr. Dickie!poor Mr. Dickie!"

The leading poet in a club of poets was Dite Walls, who kept aschool when there were scholars and weaved when there were none. Hehad a song that was published in a halfpenny leaflet about thefamous lawsuit instituted by the fanner of Teuchbusses against theLaird of Drumlee. The laird was alleged to have taken from the landof Teuchbusses sufficient broom to make a besom thereof, and I amnot certain that the case is settled to this day. It was Dite, oranother member of the club, who wrote "The Wife o' Deeside, " of allthe songs of the period the one that had the greatest vogue in thecounty at a time when Lord Jeffrey was cursed at every fireside inThrums. The wife of Deeside was tried for the murder of her servant, who had infatuated the young laird, and had it not been that Jeffreydefended her she would, in the words of the song, have "hung like atroot. " It is not easy now to conceive the rage against Jeffrey whenthe woman was acquitted. The song was sung and recited in thestreets, at the smiddy, in bothies, and by firesides, to the shakingof fists and the grinding of teeth. It began:

 "Ye'll a' hae hear tell o' the wife o' Deeside, Ye'll a' hae hear tell o' the wife o' Deeside, She poisoned her maid for to keep up her pride, Ye'll a' hae hear tell o' the wife o' Deeside. "

Before the excitement had abated, Jeffrey was in Tilliedrum forelectioneering purposes, and he was mobbed in the streets. Angrycrowds pressed close to howl "Wife o' Deeside!" at him. A contingentfrom Thrums was there, and it was long afterward told of Sam'l Todd, by himself, that he hit Jeffrey on the back of the head with a clodof earth. 

Johnny McQuhatty, a brother of the T'nowhead farmer, was the onetaciturn member of the club, and you had only to look at him to knowthat he had a secret. He was a great genius at the hand-loom, andinvented a loom for the weaving of linen such as has not been seenbefore or since. In the day-time he kept guard over his "shop, " intowhich no one was allowed to enter, and the fame of his loom was sogreat that he had to watch over it with a gun. At night he weaved, and when the result at last pleased him he made the linen intoshirts, all of which he stitched together with his own hands, evento the button-holes. He sent one shirt to the Queen, and another tothe Duchess of Athole, mentioning a very large price for them, whichhe got. Then he destroyed his wonderful loom, and how it was made noone will ever know. Johnny only took to literature after he had madehis name, and he seldom spoke at the club except when ghosts and thelike were the subject of debate, as they tended to be when thefarmer of Mucklo Haws could get in a word. Mucklo Haws wasfascinated by Johnny's sneers at superstition, and sometimes on darknights the inventor had to make his courage good by seeing thefarmer past the doulie yates (ghost gates), which Muckle Haws had togo perilously near on his way home. Johnny was a small man, but itwas the burly farmer who shook at sight of the gates standing outwhite in the night. White gates have an evil name still, and MuckleHaws was full of horrors as he drew near them, clinging to Johnny'sarm. It was on such a night, he would remember, that he saw theWhite Lady go through the gates greeting sorely, with a dead bairnin her arms, while water kelpie laughed and splashed in the poolsand the witches danced in a ring round Broken Buss. That very nighttwelve months ago the packman was murdered at Broken Buss, and EasiePettie hanged herself on the stump of a tree. Last night there wereugly sounds from the quarry of Croup, where the bairn lies buried, and it's not mous (canny) to be out at such a time. The farmer hadseen spectre maidens walking round the ruined castle of Darg, andthe castle all lit up with flaring torches, and dead knights andladies sitting in the halls at the wine-cup, and the devil himselfflapping his wings on the ramparts. 

When the debates were political, two members with the gift of songfired the blood with their own poems about taxation and thedepopulation of the Highlands, and by selling these songs from doorto door they made their livelihood. 

Books and pamphlets were brought into the town by the flyingstationers, as they were called, who visited the square periodicallycarrying their wares on their backs, except at the Muckly, when theyhad their stall and even sold books by auction. The flying stationerbest known to Thrums was Sandersy Riaca, who was stricken from headto foot with the palsy, and could only speak with a quaver inconsequence. Sandersy brought to the members of the club all thegreat books he could get second-hand, but his stock in trade wasThrummy Cap and Akenstaff, the Fishwives of Buckhaven, the Devilupon Two Sticks, Gilderoy, Sir James the Rose, the Brownie ofBadenoch, the Ghaist of Firenden, and the like. It was from Sandersythat Tammas Haggart bought his copy of Shakespeare, whom Mr. Dishartcould never abide. Tammas kept what he had done from his wife, butChirsty saw a deterioration setting in and told the minister of hersuspicions. Mr. Dishart was newly placed at the time and veryvigorous, and the way he shook the truth out of Tammas was grand. The minister pulled Tammas the one way and Gavin pulled him theother, but Mr. Dishart was not the man to be beaten, and he landedTammas in the Auld Licht kirk before the year was out. Chirstyburied Shakespeare in the yard.