sense of the typical in incident, of the universal in feeling, and
of the suggestive in language, which mark the chiefs of letters.
No one can express an idea with fewer strokes; he never expands a
sufficient hint into an essay. His management of the Scotch dialect
is masterly: he uses it sparingly, in the nearest form to English
compatible with retaining the flavor; he never makes it so hard as
to interfere with enjoyment; in few dialect writers do we feel so
little alienness.--CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER’S _Library of the World’s
Best Literature_.
FURTHER REFERENCES FOR READING ON BARRIE
_My Contemporaries in Fiction_, by J. D. C. Murray (1897); _Theology
of Modern Literature_, by S. Law Wilson (1899); _Fame and Fiction_, by
E. A. Bennett (1901); _J. M. Barrie and His Books_, by J. A. Hammerton
(1902).
FOR ANALYSIS
THE COURTING OF T’NOWHEAD’S BELL
BY JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
For two years it had been notorious in the square that Sam’l Dickie
was thinking of courting T’Nowhead’s Bell, and that if little Sanders
Elshioner (which is the Thrums pronunciation of Alexander Alexander)
went in for her he might prove a formidable rival. Sam’l was a weaver
in the Tenements, and Sanders a coal-carter whose trade-mark was a bell
on his horse’s neck that told when coals were coming. Being something
of a public man, Sanders had not so high a social position as Sam’l,
but he had succeeded his father on the coal-cart, while the weaver had
already tried several trades. It had always been against Sam’l, too,
that once when the kirk was vacant he had advised the selection of the
third minister who preached for it on the ground that it came expensive
to pay a large number of candidates. The scandal of the thing was
hushed up, out of respect for his father, who was a God-fearing man,
but Sam’l was known by it in Lang Tammas’ circle. The coal-carter was
called Little Sanders to distinguish him from his father, who was
not much more than half his size. He had grown up with the name, and
its inapplicability now came home to nobody. Sam’l’s mother had been
more far-seeing than Sanders’. Her man had been called Sammy all his
life because it was the name he got as a boy, so when their eldest
son was born she spoke of him as Sam’l while still in his cradle. The
neighbours imitated her, and thus the young man had a better start in
life than had been granted to Sammy, his father.
2. It was Saturday evening--the night in the week when Auld Licht young
men fell in love. Sam’l Dickie, wearing a blue glengarry bonnet with
a red ball on the top, came to the door of a one-story house in the
Tenements and stood there wriggling, for he was in a suit of tweeds for
the first time that week, and did not feel at one in them. When his
feeling of being a stranger to himself wore off, he looked up and down
the road, which straggles between houses and gardens, and then, picking
his way over the puddles, crossed to his father’s henhouse and sat down
on it. He was now on his way to the square.
3. Eppie Fargus was sitting on an adjoining dike knitting stockings,
and Sam’l looked at her for a time.
4. “Is’t yersel, Eppie?” he said at last.
5. “It’s a’ that,” said Eppie.
6. “Hoo’s a’ wi’ ye?” asked Sam’l.
7. “We’re juist aff an’ on,” replied Eppie cautiously.
8. There was not much more to say, but as Sam’l sidled off the henhouse
he murmured politely, “Ay, ay.” In another minute he would have been
fairly started, but Eppie resumed the conversation.
9. “Sam’l,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye, “ye can tell Lisbeth
Fargus I’ll likely be drappin’ in on her aboot Munday or Teisday.”
10. Lisbeth was sister to Eppie, and wife of Tammas McQuhatty, better
known as T’Nowhead, which was the name of his farm. She was thus Bell’s
mistress.
11. Sam’l leaned against the henhouse as if all his desire to depart
had gone.
12. “Hoo d’ye kin I’ll be at the T’Nowhead the nicht?” he asked,
grinning in anticipation.
13. “Ou, I’se warrant ye’ll be after Bell,” said Eppie.
14. “Am no sure o’ that,” said Sam’l, trying to leer. He was enjoying
himself now.
15. “Am no sure o’ that,” he repeated, for Eppie seemed lost in
stitches.
16. “Sam’l--”
17. “Ay.”
[Sidenote: Asking her.]
18. “Ye’ll be spierin’ her sune noo, I dinna doot?”
19. This took Sam’l, who had only been courting Bell for a year or two,
a little aback.
20. “Hoo d’ye mean, Eppie?” he asked.
21. “Maybe ye’ll do’t the nicht.”
22. “Na, there’s nae hurry,” said Sam’l.
23. “Weel, we’re a’ coontin’ on’t, Sam’l.”
24. “Gae wa wi’ ye.”
25. “What for no?”
26. “Gae wa wi’ ye,” said Sam’l again.
27. “Bell’s gie an’ fond o’ ye, Sam’l.”
28. “Ay,” said Sam’l.
29. “But am dootin’ ye’re a fell billy wi’ the lasses.”
30. “Ay, oh, I d’na kin, moderate, moderate,” said Sam’l, in high
delight.
31. “I saw ye,” said Eppie, speaking with a wire in her mouth, “gaein’
on terr’ble wi’ Mysy Haggart at the pump last Saturday.”
32. “We was juist amoosin’ oorsels,” said Sam’l.
33. “It’ll be nae amoosement to Mysy,” said Eppie, “gin ye brak her
heart.”
34. “Losh, Eppie,” said Sam’l, “I didna think o’ that.”
35. “Ye maun kin weel, Sam’l, 'at there’s mony a lass wid jump at ye.”
36. “Ou, weel,” said Sam’l, implying that a man must take these things
as they come.
37. “For ye’re a dainty chield to look at, Sam’l.”
38. “Do ye think so, Eppie? Ay, ay; oh, I d’na kin am onything by the
ordinar.”
39. “Ye mayna be,” said Eppie, “but lasses doesna do to be ower
partikler.”
40. Sam’l resented this, and prepared to depart again.
41. “Ye’ll no tell Bell that?” he asked anxiously.
42. “Tell her what?”
43. “Aboot me an’ Mysy.”
44. “We’ll see hoo ye behave yersel, Sam’l.”
45. “No 'at I care, Eppie; ye can tell her gin ye like. I widna think
twice o’ tellin’ her mysel.”
46. “The Lord forgie ye for leein’, Sam’l,” said Eppie, as he
disappeared down Tammy Tosh’s close. Here he came upon Henders Webster.
[Sidenote: Alley, or court.]
47. “Ye’re late, Sam’l,” said Henders.
48. “What for?”
49. “Ou, I was thinkin’ ye wid be gaen the length o’ T’Nowhead the
nicht, an’ I saw Sanders Elshioner makkin’s wy there an oor syne.”
50. “Did ye?” cried Sam’l, adding craftily, “but it’s naething to me.”
51. “Tod, lad,” said Henders, “gin ye dinna buckle to, Sanders’ll be
carryin’ her off.”
52. Sam’l flung back his head and passed on.
53. “Sam’l!” cried Henders after him.
54. “Ay,” said Sam’l, wheeling round.
55. “Gie Bell a kiss frae me.”
56. The full force of this joke struck neither all at once. Sam’l began
to smile at it as he turned down the school-wynd, and it came upon
Henders while he was in his garden feeding his ferret. Then he slapped
his legs gleefully, and explained the conceit to Will’um Byars, who
went into the house and thought it over.
57. 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. Now and
again a staid young woman passed through the square with a basket on
her arm, and if she had lingered long enough to give them time, some of
the idlers would have addressed her. As it was, they gazed after her,
and then grinned to each other.
58. “Ay, Sam’l,” said two or three young men as Sam’l joined them
beneath the town clock.
59. “Ay, Davit,” replied Sam’l.
60. This group was composed of some of the sharpest wits in Thrums, and
it 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.
61. “Was ye lookin’ for T’Nowhead’s Bell, Sam’l?” asked one.
62. “Or mebbe ye was wantin’ the minister?” suggested another, the
same who had walked out twice with Christy Duff and not married her
after all.
63. Sam’l could not think of a good reply at the moment, so he laughed
good-naturedly.
64. “Ondoobtedly she’s a snod bit crittur,” said Davit archly.
65. “An’ michty clever wi’ her fingers,” added Jamie Deuchars.
66. “Man, I’ve thocht o’ makkin’ up to Bell mysel,” said Peter Ogle.
“Wid there be ony chance, think ye, Sam’l?”
67. “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’s nae
sayin’ but what she micht tak ye to finish up wi’.”
68. The unexpectedness of this sally startled everyone. Though Sam’l
did not set up for a wit, however, like Davit, it was notorious that he
could say a cutting thing once in a way.
69. “Did ye ever see Bell reddin’ up?” asked Pete, recovering from his
overthrow. He was a man who bore no malice.
70. “It’s a sicht,” said Sam’l solemnly.
71. “Hoo will that be?” asked Jamie Deuchars.
[Sidenote: Little ones.]
72. “It’s well worth yer while,” said Pete, “to ging atower to the
T’Nowhead an’ see. Ye’ll mind the closed-in beds i’ the kitchen? Ay,
well, they’re a fell spoilt crew, T’Nowhead’s litlins, an’ no that
aisy to manage. Th’ither lasses Lisbeth’s hae’n had a michty trouble
wi’ them. When they war i’ the middle o’ their reddin’ up the bairns
wid come tumlin’ about the floor, but, sal, I assure ye, Bell didna
fash lang wi’ them. Did she, Sam’l?”
73. “She did not,” said Sam’l, dropping into a fine mode of speech to
add emphasis to his remark.
74. “I’ll tell ye what she did,” said Pete to the others. “She
juist lifted up the litlins, twa at a time, an’ flung them into the
coffin-beds. Syne she snibbit the doors on them, an’ keepit them there
till the floor was dry.”
75. “Ay, man, did she so?” said Davit admiringly.
76. “I’ve seen her do’t mysel,” said Sam’l.
77. “There’s no a lassie makes better bannocks this side o’ Fetter
Lums,” continued Pete.
78. “Her mither tocht her that,” said Sam’l; “she was a gran’ han’ at
the bakin’, Kitty Ogilvy.”
79. “I’ve heard say,” remarked Jamie, putting it this way, so as not
to tie himself down to anything, “'at Bell’s scones is equal to Mag
Lunan’s.”
80. “So they are,” said Sam’l, almost fiercely.
81. “I kin she’s a neat han’ at singein’ a hen,” said Pete.
82. “An’ wi’t a’,” said Davit, “she’s a snod, canty bit stocky in her
Sabbath claes.”
83. “If onything, thick in the waist,” suggested Jamie.
84. “I dinna see that,” said Sam’l.
85. “I d’na care for her hair either,” continued Jamie, who was very
nice in his tastes; “something mair yallowchy wid be an improvement.”
86. “A’body kins,” growled Sam’l, “'at black hair’s the bonniest.”
87. The others chuckled.
88. “Puir Sam’l!” Pete said.
89. Sam’l not being certain whether this should be received with a
smile or a frown, opened his mouth wide as a kind of compromise. This
was position one with him for thinking things over.
90. Few Auld Lichts, as I have said, went the length of choosing a
helpmate for themselves. One day a young man’s friends would see him
mending the washing-tub of a maiden’s mother. They kept the joke until
Saturday night, and then he learned from them what he had been after.
It dazed him for a time, but in a year or so he grew accustomed to the
idea, and they were then married. With a little help he fell in love
just like other people.
91. Sam’l was going the way of the others, but he found it difficult
to come to the point. He only went courting once a week, and he could
never take up the running at the place where he left off the Saturday
before. Thus he had not, so far, made great headway. His method of
making up to Bell had been to drop in at T’Nowhead on Saturday nights
and talk with the farmer about the rinderpest.
92. The farm kitchen was Bell’s testimonial. Its chairs, tables, and
stools were scoured by her to the whiteness of Rob Angus’s sawmill
boards, and the muslin blind on the window was starched like a child’s
pinafore. Bell was brave, too, as well as energetic. Once Thrums had
been overrun with thieves. It is now thought that there may have been
only one, but he had the wicked cleverness of a gang. Such was his
repute that there were weavers who spoke of locking their doors when
they went from home. He was not very skilful, however, being generally
caught, and when they said they knew he was a robber he gave them their
things back and went away. If they had given him time there is no
doubt that he would have gone off with his plunder. One night he went
to T’Nowhead, and Bell, who slept in the kitchen, was wakened by the
noise. She knew who it would be, so she rose and dressed herself and
went to look for him with a candle. The thief had not known what to do
when he got in, and as it was very lonely he was glad to see Bell. She
told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, and would not let him out
by the door until he had taken off his boots so as not to soil the
carpet.
93. On this Saturday evening Sam’l stood his ground in the square,
until by and by he found himself alone. There were other groups there
still, but his circle had melted away. They went separately, and no one
said good-night. Each took himself off slowly, backing out of the group
until he was fairly started.
94. Sam’l looked about him, and then, seeing that the others had gone,
walked round the townhouse into the darkness of the brae that leads
down and then up to the farm of T’Nowhead.
95. To get into the good graces of Lisbeth Fargus you had to know her
ways and humour them. Sam’l, who was a student of women, knew this, and
so, instead of pushing the door open and walking in, he went through
the rather ridiculous ceremony of knocking. Sanders Elshioner was also
aware of this weakness of Lisbeth’s, but, though he often made up his
mind to knock, the absurdity of the thing prevented his doing so when
he reached the door. T’Nowhead himself had never got used to his wife’s
refined notions, and when any one knocked he always started to his
feet, thinking there must be something wrong.
96. Lisbeth came to the door, her expansive figure blocking the way in.
97. “Sam’l,” she said.
98. “Lisbeth,” said Sam’l.
99. He shook hands with the farmer’s wife, knowing that she liked it,
but only said, “Ay, Bell,” to his sweetheart, “Ay, T’Nowhead,” to
McQuhatty, and “It’s yersel, Sanders,” to his rival.
100. They were sitting round the fire, T’Nowhead, with his feet on the
ribs, wondering why he felt so warm, and Bell darned a stocking, while
Lisbeth kept an eye on a goblet full of potatoes.
101. “Sit into the fire, Sam’l,” said the farmer, not, however, making
way for him.
102. “Na, na,” said Sam’l, “I’m to bide nae time.” Then he sat into
the fire. His face was turned away from Bell, and when she spoke he
answered her without looking round. Sam’l felt a little anxious.
Sanders Elshioner, who had one leg shorter than the other, but looked
well when sitting, seemed suspiciously at home. He asked Bell questions
out of his own head, which was beyond Sam’l, and once he said something
to her in such a low voice that the others could not catch it.
T’Nowhead asked curiously what it was, and Sanders explained 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. He began to wonder if he
was too late, and had he seen his opportunity would have told Bell of
a nasty rumour that Sanders intended to go over to the Free Church if
they would make him kirk-officer.
103. 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 made
mistakes. To-night, for instance, he wore his hat in the house because
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 he meant to go out by and by
and lock the byre door. It was impossible to say which of her lovers
Bell preferred. The proper course with an Auld Licht lassie was to
prefer the man who proposed to her.
104. “Ye’ll bide a wee, an’ hae something to eat?” Lisbeth asked Sam’l,
with her eyes on the goblet.
105. “No, I thank ye,” said Sam’l, with true gentility.
106. “Ye’ll better?”
107. “I dinna think it.”
108. “Hoots aye; what’s to hender ye?”
109. “Weel, since ye’re sae pressin’, I’ll bide.”
110. No one asked Sanders to stay. Bell could not, for she was but the
servant, and T’Nowhead knew that the kick his wife had given him meant
that he was not to do so either. Sanders whistled to show that he was
not uncomfortable.
111. “Ay then, I’ll be stappin’ ower the brae,” he said at last.
112. He did not go, however. There was sufficient pride in him to get
him off his chair, but only slowly, for he had to get accustomed to the
notion of going. At intervals of two or three minutes he remarked that
he must now be going. In the same circumstances Sam’l would have acted
similarly. For a Thrums man it is one of the hardest things in life to
get away from anywhere.
113. At last Lisbeth saw that something must be done. The potatoes were
burning, and T’Nowhead had an invitation on his tongue.
114. “Yes, I’ll hae to be movin’,” said Sanders, hopelessly, for the
fifth time.
115. “Guid nicht to ye, then, Sanders,” said Lisbeth. “Gie the door a
fling-to, ahent ye.”
116. Sanders, with a mighty effort, pulled himself together. He looked
boldly at Bell, and then took off his hat carefully. Sam’l saw with
misgivings that there was something in it which was not a handkerchief.
It was a paper bag glittering with gold braid, and contained such an
assortment of sweets as lads bought for their lasses on the Muckle
Friday.
117. “Hae, Bell,” said Sanders, handing the bag to Bell in an off-hand
way as if it were but a trifle. Nevertheless he was a little excited,
for he went off without saying good-night.
118. No one spoke. Bell’s face was crimson. T’Nowhead fidgeted on his
chair, and Lisbeth looked at Sam’l. The weaver was strangely calm
and collected, though he would have liked to know whether this was a
proposal.
119. “Sit in by to the table, Sam’l,” said Lisbeth, trying to look as
if things were as they had been before.
120. She put a saucerful of butter, salt, and pepper near the fire to
melt, for melted butter is the shoeing-horn that helps over a meal of
potatoes. Sam’l, however, saw what the hour required, and jumping up,
he seized his bonnet.
121. “Hing the tatties higher up the joist, Lisbeth,” he said with
dignity; “I’se be back in ten meenits.”
122. He hurried out of the house, leaving the others looking at each
other.
123. “What do ye think?” asked Lisbeth.
124. “I d’na kin,” faltered Bell.
125. “Thae tatties is lang o’ comin’ to the boil,” said T’Nowhead.
126. In some circles a lover who behaved like Sam’l would have been
suspected of intent upon his rival’s life, but neither Bell nor Lisbeth
did the weaver that injustice. In a case of this kind it does not much
matter what T’Nowhead thought.
127. The ten minutes had barely passed when Sam’l was back in the farm
kitchen. He was too flurried to knock this time, and, indeed, Lisbeth
did not expect it of him.
128. “Bell, hae!” he cried, handing his sweetheart a tinsel bag twice
the size of Sander’s gift.
129. “Losh preserve’s!” exclaimed Lisbeth; “I’se warrant there’s a
shillin’s worth.”
130. “There’s a’ that, Lisbeth--an’ mair,” said Sam’l, firmly.
131. “I thank ye, Sam’l,” said Bell, feeling an unwonted elation as she
gazed at the two paper bags in her lap.
132. “Ye’re ower extravegint, Sam’l,” Lisbeth said.
133. “Not at all,” said Sam’l; “not at all. But I widna advise ye to
eat thae ither anes, Bell--they’re second quality.”
134. Bell drew back a step from Sam’l.
135. “How do ye kin?” asked the farmer shortly, for he liked Sanders.
136. “I spiered i’ the shop,” said Sam’l.
137. The goblet was placed on a broken plate on the table with the
saucer beside it, and Sam’l, like the others, helped himself. What he
did was to take potatoes from the pot with his fingers, peel off their
coats, and then dip them into the butter. Lisbeth would have liked to
provide knives and forks, but she knew that beyond a certain point
T’Nowhead was master in his own house. As for Sam’l, he felt victory in
his hands, and began to think that he had gone too far.
138. In the meantime Sanders, little witting that Sam’l had trumped
his trick, was sauntering along the kirk-wynd with his hat on the side
of his head. Fortunately he did not meet the minister.
139. The courting of T’Nowhead’s Bell reached its crisis one Sabbath
about a month after the events above recorded. The minister was in
great force that day, but it is no part of mine to tell how he bore
himself. I was there, and am not likely to forget the scene. It was a
fateful Sabbath for T’Nowhead’s Bell and her swains, and destined to
be remembered for the painful scandal which they perpetrated in their
passion.
140. Bell was not in the kirk. There being an infant of six months in
the house it was a question of either Lisbeth or the lassie’s staying
at home with him, and though Lisbeth was unselfish in a general way,
she could not resist the delight of going to church. She had nine
children besides the baby, and being but a woman, it was the pride of
her life to march them into the T’Nowhead pew, so well watched that
they dared not misbehave, and so tightly packed that they could not
fall. The congregation looked at that pew, the mothers enviously, when
they sang the lines--
“Jerusalem like a city is
Compactly built together.”
141. 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’s pew. Bell was alone at the farm. What
an opportunity to work one’s way up to a proposal. T’Nowhead was so
overrun 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.
142. 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.
143. A number of the congregation felt that day the advantage of
sitting in the loft. 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 common.
144. It was a race for a wife, and several onlookers in the gallery
braved the minister’s displeasure to see who won. Those who favoured
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.