The Project Gutenberg EBook of Auld Licht Idyls, by J. M. Barrie This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Auld Licht Idyls Author: J. M. Barrie Release Date: July, 2005 [EBook #8590] This file was first posted on July 25, 2003 Last Updated: March 10, 2018 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AULD LICHT IDYLS *** Text file produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team The HTML file produced by David Widger
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 a field
than to leave it. For weeks at a time they were snowed up, sufficiently to
prevent any one from Thrums going near them, though not sufficiently to
keep the pallid mummers indoors. That would in many cases have meant
starvation. They managed to fight their way through storm and snowdrift to
the high road and thence to the town, where they got meal and sometimes
broth. The tumblers and jugglers used occasionally to hire an out-house in
the town at these times—you may be sure they did not pay for it in
advance—and give performances there. It is a curious thing, but
true, that our herd-boys and others were sometimes struck with the
stage-fever. Thrums lost boys to the show-men even in winter.
On the whole, the farmers and the people generally were wonderfully
long-suffering with these wanderers, who I believe were more honest than
was to be expected. They stole, certainly; but seldom did they steal
anything more valuable than turnips. Sam'l Mann himself flushed proudly
over the effect his show once had on an irate farmer. The farmer appeared
in the encampment, whip in hand and furious. They must get off his land
before nightfall. The crafty showman, however, prevailed upon him to take
a look at the acrobats, and he enjoyed the performance so much that he
offered to let them stay until the end of the week. Before that time came
there was such a fall of snow that departure was out of the question; and
it is to the farmer's credit that he sent Sam'l a bag of meal to tide him
and his actors over the storm.
There were times when the showmen made a tour of the bothies, where they
slung their poles and ropes and gave their poor performances to audiences
that were not critical. The bothy being strictly the “man's” castle, the
farmer never interfered; indeed, he was sometimes glad to see the show.
Every other weaver in Thrums used to have a son a ploughman, and it was
the men from the bothies who filled the square on the muckly. “Hands” are
not huddled together nowadays in squalid barns more like cattle than men
and women, but bothies in the neighborhood of Thrums are not yet things of
the past. Many a ploughman delves his way to and from them still in all
weathers, when the snow is on the ground; at the time of “hairst,” and
when the turnip “shaws” have just forced themselves through the earth,
looking like straight rows of green needles. Here is a picture of a bothy
of to-day that I visited recently. Over the door there is a waterspout
that has given way, and as I entered I got a rush of rain down my neck.
The passage was so small that one could easily have stepped from the
doorway on to the ladder standing against the wall, which was there in
lieu of a staircase. “Upstairs” was a mere garret, where a man could not
stand erect even in the centre. It was entered by a square hole in the
ceiling, at present closed by a clap-door in no way dissimilar to the
trap-doors on a theatre stage. I climbed into this garret, which is at
present used as a store-room for agricultural odds and ends. At
harvest-time, however, it is inhabited—full to overflowing. A few
decades ago as many as fifty laborers engaged for the harvest had to be
housed in the farm out-houses on beds of straw. There was no help for it,
and men and women had to congregate in these barns together. Up as early
as five in the morning, they were generally dead tired by night; and,
miserable though this system of herding them together was, they took it
like stoics, and their very number served as a moral safeguard. Nowadays
the harvest is gathered in so quickly, and machinery does so much that
used to be done by hand, that this crowding of laborers together, which
was the bothy system at its worst, 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 at
this busy time to herd together even at night.
The bothy was but scantily furnished, though it consisted of two rooms. In
the one, which was used almost solely as a sleeping apartment, there was
no furniture to speak of, beyond two closet beds, and its bumpy earthen
floor gave it a cheerless look. The other, which had a single bed, was
floored with wood. It was not badly lit by two very small windows that
faced each other, and, besides several stools, there was a long form
against one of the walls. A bright fire of peat and coal—nothing in
the world makes such a cheerful red fire as this combination—burned
beneath a big kettle (“boiler” they called it), and there was a “press” or
cupboard containing a fair assortment of cooking utensils. Of these some
belonged to the bothy, while others were the private property of the
tenants. A tin “pan” and “pitcher” of water stood near the door, and the
table in the middle of the room was covered with oilcloth.
Four men and a boy inhabited this bothy, and the rain had driven them all
indoors. In better weather they spend the leisure of the evening at the
game of quoits, which is the standard pastime among Scottish ploughmen.
They fish the neighboring streams, too, and have burn-trout for supper
several times a week. When I entered, two of them were sitting by the fire
playing draughts, or, as they called it, “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 wonderful stories are current in all bothies of the times
when his master called him into the farm-parlor to show his skill. A third
man, who seemed the elder by quite twenty years, was at the window reading
a newspaper; and I got no shock when I saw that it was the Saturday
Review, which he and a laborer on an adjoining farm took in weekly
between them. There was a copy of a local newspaper—the People's
Journal—also lying about, and some books, including one of
Darwin's. These were all the property of this man, however, who did the
reading for the bothy.
They did all the cooking for themselves, living largely on milk. In the
old days, which the senior could remember, porridge was so universally the
morning meal that they called it by that name instead of breakfast. They
still breakfast on porridge, but often take tea “above it.” Generally milk
is taken with the porridge; but “porter” or stout in a bowl is no uncommon
substitute. Potatoes at twelve o'clock—seldom “brose” nowadays—are
the staple dinner dish, and the tinned meats have become very popular.
There are bothies where each man makes his own food; but of course the
more satisfactory plan is for them to club together. Sometimes they get
their food in the farm-kitchen; but this is only when there are few of
them and the farmer and his family do not think it beneath them to dine
with the men. 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
great quantities of milk are provided. There is very little beer drunk,
and whiskey is only consumed in privacy.
Life in the bothies is not, I should say, so lonely as life at the
school-house, for the hands have at least each other's company. The hawker
visits them frequently still, though the itinerant tailor, once a familiar
figure, has almost vanished. Their great place of congregating is still
some country smiddy, which is also their frequent meeting-place when bent
on black-fishing. The flare of the black-fisher's torch still attracts
salmon to their death in the rivers near Thrums; and you may hear in the
glens on a dark night the rattle of the spears on the wet stones. Twenty
or thirty years ago, however, the sport was much more common. After the
farmer had gone to bed, some half-dozen ploughmen and a few other poachers
from Thrums would set out for the meeting-place.
The smithy on these occasions must have been a weird sight; though one did
not mark that at the time. The poacher crept from the darkness into the
glaring smithy light; for in country parts the anvil 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 the gangs the name of black-fishers. Other
disguises were resorted to; one of the commonest being to change clothes
or to turn your corduroys outside in. The country-folk of those days were
more superstitious than they are now, and it did not take much to turn the
black-fishers back. There was not a barn or byre in the district that had
not its horseshoe over the door. Another popular device for frightening
away witches and fairies was to hang bunches of garlic about the farms. I
have known a black-fishing expedition stopped because a “yellow yite,” or
yellow-hammer, hovered round the gang when they were setting out. Still
more ominous was the “péat” when it appeared with one or three companions.
An old rhyme about this bird runs—“One is joy, two is grief, three's
a bridal, four is death.” Such snatches of superstition are still to be
heard amidst the gossip of a north-country smithy.
Each black-fisher brought his own spear and torch, both more or less
home-made. The spears were in many cases “gully-knives,” fastened to
staves with twine and resin, called “rozet.” The torches were very
rough-and-ready things—rope and tar, or even rotten roots dug from
broken trees—in fact, anything that would flare. The black-fishers
seldom journeyed far from home, confining themselves to the rivers within
a radius of three or four miles. There were many reasons for this: one of
them being that the hands had to be at their work on the farm by five
o'clock in the morning: another, that so they poached and let poach.
Except when in spate, the river I specially refer to offered no
attractions to the black-fishers. Heavy rains, however, swell it much more
quickly than most rivers into a turbulent rush of water; the part of it
affected by the black-fishers being banked in with rocks that prevent the
water's spreading. Above these rocks, again, are heavy green banks, from
which stunted trees grow aslant across the river. The effect is fearsome
at some points where the trees run into each other, as it were, from
opposite banks. However, the black-fishers thought nothing of these
things. They took a turnip lantern with them—that is, a lantern
hollowed out of a turnip, with a piece of candle inside—but no
lights were shown on the road. Every one knew his way to the river
blindfold; so that the darker the night the better. On reaching the water
there was a pause. One or two of the gang climbed the banks to discover if
any bailiffs were on the watch; while the others sat down, and with the
help of the turnip lantern “busked” their spears; in other words, fastened
on the steel—or, it might be, merely pieces of rusty iron sharpened
into a point at home—to the staves. Some had them busked before they
set out, but that was not considered prudent; for of course 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 from ordinary staves. Nevertheless
little time was lost. Five or six of the gang waded into the water, torch
in one hand and spear in the other; and the object now was to catch some
salmon with the least possible 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 a torch makes in a high wind. The torches, of course, were used
to attract the fish, which came swimming to the sheen, and were then
speared. As little noise as possible was made; but though the men bit
their lips instead of crying out when they missed their fish, there was a
continuous ring of their weapons on the stones, and every irrepressible
imprecation was echoed up and down the black glen. Two or three of the
gang were told off to land the salmon, and they had to 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 being lost; but often this was not the
case, and probably not more than two-thirds of the salmon speared were got
safely to the bank. The takes of course varied; sometimes, indeed, the
black-fishers returned home empty-handed.
Encounters with the bailiffs were not infrequent, though they seldom took
place at the water's edge. When the poachers were caught in the act, and
had their blood up with the excitement of the sport, they were ugly
customers. Spears were used and heads were broken. Struggles even took
place in the water, when there was always a chance of somebody's being
drowned. Where the bailiffs gave the black-fishers an opportunity of
escaping without a fight it was nearly always taken; the booty being left
behind. As a rule, when the “water watchers,” as the bailiffs were
sometimes called, had an inkling of what was to take place, they
reinforced themselves with a constable or two and waited on the road to
catch the poachers on their way home. One black-fisher, a noted character,
was nicknamed the “Deil o' Glen Quharity.” He was said to have gone to the
houses of the bailiffs and offered to sell them the fish stolen from the
streams over which they kept guard. The “Deil” was never imprisoned—partly,
perhaps, because he was too eccentric to be taken seriously.
“Jerusalem like a city is Compactly built together.”The first half of the service had been gone through on this particular Sunday without anything remarkable happening. It was at the end of the psalm which preceded the sermon that Sanders Elshioner, who sat near the door, lowered his head until it was no higher than the pews, and in that attitude, looking almost like a four-footed animal, slipped out of the church. In their eagerness to be at the sermon many of the congregation did not notice him, and those who did put the matter by in their minds for future investigation. Sam'l, however, could not take it so coolly. From his seat in the gallery he saw Sanders disappear, and his mind misgave him. With the true lover's instinct he understood it all. Sanders had been struck by the fine turn-out in the T'nowhead pew. Bell was alone at the farm. What an opportunity to work one's way up to a proposal! T'nowhead was so over-run with children, that such a chance seldom occurred, except on a Sabbath. Sanders, doubtless, was off to propose, and he, Sam'l, was left behind. The suspense was terrible. Sam'l and Sanders had both known all along that Bell would take the first of the two who asked her. Even those who thought her proud admitted that she was modest. Bitterly the weaver repented having waited so long. Now it was too late. In ten minutes Sanders would be at T'nowhead; in an hour all would be over. Sam'l rose to his feet in a daze. His mother pulled him down by the coat-tail, and his father shook him, thinking he was walking in his sleep. He tottered past them, however, hurried up the aisle, which was so narrow that Dan'l Ross could only reach his seat by walking sideways, and was gone before the minister could do more than stop in the middle of a whirl and gape in horror after him. A number of the congregation felt that day the advantage of sitting in the laft. What was a mystery to those downstairs was revealed to them. From the gallery windows they had a fine open view to the south; and as Sam'l took the common; which was a short cut though a steep ascent, to T'nowhead, he was never out of their line of vision. Sanders was not to be seen, but they guessed rightly the reason why. Thinking he had ample time, he had gone round by the main road to save his boots—perhaps a little scared by what was coming. Sam'l's design was to forestall him by taking the shorter path over the burn and up the commonty. It was a race for a wife, and several onlookers in the gallery braved the minister's displeasure to see who won. Those who favored Sam'l's suit exultingly saw him leap the stream, while the friends of Sanders fixed their eyes on the top of the common where it ran into the road. Sanders must come into sight there, and the one who reached this point first would get Bell. As Auld Lichts do not walk abroad on the Sabbath, Sanders would probably not be delayed. The chances were in his favor. Had it been any other day in the week Sam'l might have run. So some of the congregation in the gallery were thinking, when suddenly they saw him bend low and then take to his heels. He had caught sight of Sanders' head bobbing over the hedge that separated the road from the common, and feared that Sanders might see him. The congregation who could crane their necks sufficiently saw a black object, which they guessed to be the carter's hat, crawling along the hedge-top. For a moment it was motionless, and then it shot ahead. The rivals had seen each other. It was now a hot race. Sam'l, dissembling no longer, clattered up the common, becoming smaller and smaller to the on-lookers as he neared the top. More than one person in the gallery almost 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 no one 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's saving that Sanders saw this when his rival turned the corner; for Sam'l was sadly blown. Sanders took in the situation and gave in at once. The last hundred yards of the distance he covered at his leisure, and when he arrived at his destination he did not go in. It was a fine afternoon for the time of year, and he went round to have a look at the pig, about which T'nowhead was a little sinfully puffed up. “Ay,” said Sanders, digging his fingers critically into the grunting animal; “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 and silently at an empty bucket. But whether his thoughts were of T'nowhead's Bell, whom he had lost forever, or of the food the farmer fed his pig on, is not known. “Lord preserve's! Are ye no at the kirk?” cried Bell, nearly dropping 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 the occasion required milk, and there was none in the kitchen. She went out to the byre, still with the baby in her arms, and saw Sanders Elshioner 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 a weaver, and yet—But it was too late now. Sanders gave the pig a vicious poke with a stick, and when it had ceased to grunt, Bell was back in the kitchen. She had forgotten about the milk, however, and Sam'l only got water after all. In after days, when the story of Bell's wooing was told, there were some who held that the circumstances would have almost justified the lassie in giving Sam'l the go-by. But these perhaps forgot that her other lover was in the same predicament as the accepted one—that of the two, indeed, he was the more to blame, for he set off to T'nowhead on the Sabbath of his own accord, while Sam'l only ran after him. And then there is no one to say for certain whether Bell heard of her suitors' delinquencies until Lisbeth's return from the kirk. Sam'l could never remember whether he told her, and Bell was not sure whether, if he did, she took it in. Sanders was greatly in demand for weeks after to tell what he knew of the affair, but though he was twice asked to tea to the manse among the trees, and subjected thereafter to ministerial cross-examinations, this is all he told. He remained at the pig-sty until Sam'l left the farm, when he 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 the minister on't.” “They say,” continued the relentless Sanders, “'at the minister doesna 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 upper han' o' the wife for a while at first, there's the mair chance o' a harmonious 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 lang wi' Lisbeth Fargus no to hae learnt her ways. An a'body kins what a life 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 to spier her yer-sel.” “I was, Sam'l,” said Sanders, “and I canna but be thankfu' ye was ower 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 were on 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 for Sam'l Dickie. The scandal blew over. At first it was expected that the minister would interfere to prevent the union, but beyond intimating from the pulpit that the souls of Sabbath-breakers were beyond praying for, and then praying for Sam'l and Sanders at great length, with a word thrown in for Bell, he let things take their course. Some said it was because he was always frightened lest his young men should intermarry with other denominations, but Sanders explained it differently 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' to mat 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 their friendship. On the contrary, while they had hitherto been mere acquaintances, they became inseparables as the wedding-day drew near. It was noticed that they had much to say to each other, and that when they could not get a room to themselves they wandered about together in the churchyard. When Sam'l had anything to tell Bell 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. He never laughed now on Saturdays, and sometimes his loom was silent half the day. Sam'l felt that Sanders' was the kindness of a friend for a dying man. It was to be a penny wedding, and Lisbeth Fargus said it was delicacy that made Sam'l superintend the fitting-up of the barn by deputy. Once he came to see it in person, but he looked so ill that Sanders had to see him home. This was on the Thursday afternoon, and the 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 accepted swain. “Ay,” said Sanders reluctantly. “I'm dootin'—I'm sair dootin' she's but a flichty, light-hearted crittur 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' the futur,” said Sanders. Sam'l groaned. “Ye'll be gaein up to the manse to arrange wi' the minister the morn'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 deaths in our family too.” “It may a' be for the best,” added Sanders, “an' there wid be a michty talk i' the hale country-side gin ye didna ging to the minister 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 kirk that 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 a wheedling 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 ane anither as you an' Bell.” “Canna ye, Sam'l?” “She wid mak ye a guid wife, Sanders, I hae studied her weel, and she's a thrifty, douce, clever lassie. Sanders, there's no the like o' her. Mony a time, Sanders, I hae said to mysel, 'There's a lass ony 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, tak her, Sanders; it's a grand chance, Sanders. She's yours for the spierin'. 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 a true frien' to me.” Then they shook hands for the first time in their lives; and soon afterward Sanders struck up the brae to T'nowhead, Next morning Sanders Elshioner, who had been very busy the night before, 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 I hope you do not enter upon the blessed state of matrimony without full consideration of its responsibilities. It is a serious business, 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 wife T'nowhead's Bell, and I remember seeing Sam'l Dickie trying to dance at the penny wedding. Years afterward it was said in Thrums that Sam'l had treated Bell badly, but he was never sure about it himself. “It was a near thing—a michty near thing,” he admitted in the square. “They say,” some other weaver would remark, “'at it was you Bell liked best.” “I d'na kin,” Sam'l would reply, “but there's nae doot the lassie was fell fond o' me. Ou, a mere passin' fancy's ye micht say.”
“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 for electioneering purposes, and he was mobbed in the streets. Angry crowds pressed close to howl “Wife o' Deeside!” at him. A contingent from 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 clod of earth. Johnny McQuhatty, a brother of the T'nowhead farmer, was the one taciturn member of the club, and you had only to look at him to know that he had a secret. He was a great genius at the hand-loom, and invented a loom for the weaving of linen such as has not been seen before or since. In the day-time he kept guard over his “shop,” into which no one was allowed to enter, and the fame of his loom was so great 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 into shirts, all of which he stitched together with his own hands, even to the button-holes. He sent one shirt to the Queen, and another to the Duchess of Athole, mentioning a very large price for them, which he got. Then he destroyed his wonderful loom, and how it was made no one will ever know. Johnny only took to literature after he had made his name, and he seldom spoke at the club except when ghosts and the like were the subject of debate, as they tended to be when the farmer of Mucklo Haws could get in a word. Mucklo Haws was fascinated by Johnny's sneers at superstition, and sometimes on dark nights the inventor had to make his courage good by seeing the farmer past the doulie yates (ghost gates), which Muckle Haws had to go perilously near on his way home. Johnny was a small man, but it was the burly farmer who shook at sight of the gates standing out white in the night. White gates have an evil name still, and Muckle Haws was full of horrors as he drew near them, clinging to Johnny's arm. It was on such a night, he would remember, that he saw the White Lady go through the gates greeting sorely, with a dead bairn in her arms, while water kelpie laughed and splashed in the pools and the witches danced in a ring round Broken Buss. That very night twelve months ago the packman was murdered at Broken Buss, and Easie Pettie hanged herself on the stump of a tree. Last night there were ugly 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 had seen spectre maidens walking round the ruined castle of Darg, and the castle all lit up with flaring torches, and dead knights and ladies sitting in the halls at the wine-cup, and the devil himself flapping his wings on the ramparts. When the debates were political, two members with the gift of song fired the blood with their own poems about taxation and the depopulation of the Highlands, and by selling these songs from door to door they made their livelihood. Books and pamphlets were brought into the town by the flying stationers, as they were called, who visited the square periodically carrying their wares on their backs, except at the Muckly, when they had their stall and even sold books by auction. The flying stationer best known to Thrums was Sandersy Riaca, who was stricken from head to foot with the palsy, and could only speak with a quaver in consequence. Sandersy brought to the members of the club all the great books he could get second-hand, but his stock in trade was Thrummy Cap and Akenstaff, the Fishwives of Buckhaven, the Devil upon Two Sticks, Gilderoy, Sir James the Rose, the Brownie of Badenoch, the Ghaist of Firenden, and the like. It was from Sandersy that Tammas Haggart bought his copy of Shakespeare, whom Mr. Dishart could never abide. Tammas kept what he had done from his wife, but Chirsty saw a deterioration setting in and told the minister of her suspicions. Mr. Dishart was newly placed at the time and very vigorous, and the way he shook the truth out of Tammas was grand. The minister pulled Tammas the one way and Gavin pulled him the other, but Mr. Dishart was not the man to be beaten, and he landed Tammas in the Auld Licht kirk before the year was out. Chirsty buried Shakespeare in the yard.
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