[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 706. SATURDAY, JULY 7, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
STORY OF THE FAIRBAIRNS.
Towards the end of last century, the family of Andrew Fairbairn
resided at the foot of the Woodmarket, Kelso. Andrew was a man in
humble circumstances, but was intelligent and industrious, and fond of
reading. He had spent his early life as a ploughboy, and afterwards as
a gardener; by which means, along with the perusal of books, he gained
a good knowledge of agriculture. Having in the course of pushing his
fortunes gone to reside near a seaport in England, he was, during the
exigences of the American war, pressed on board a frigate, from which
he was draughted into a ship of the line, and served under Lord Howe
at the destruction of the Spanish fleet off Gibraltar. At the close of
the war, he happened to be present at Spithead, when the _Royal George_
sank, August 29, 1782, and assisted in saving the survivors. Receiving
his discharge, he returned to Scotland, and settling in Kelso, married
Miss Henderson, daughter of a tradesman in Jedburgh, and in due time
had a family of sons and daughters. That may be called the beginning of
the Fairbairns.
Andrew did not return to sea-life. He had had enough of naval
adventure. Kelso, where he pitched his camp, is a pretty inland town
on the north bank of the Tweed, once celebrated for an abbey, of which
the ruins still exist, and having in its immediate neighbourhood the
palatial mansion of Fleurs, the seat of the Dukes of Roxburghe. All
around is a fine fertile country, where there is abundant scope for
agricultural pursuits. To these he addicted himself, though taking him
six days a week from home, and obliging him to devolve the upbringing
of his children in a great measure to his wife, who was eminently
suited for this important duty. She was far from robust, and her
poor state of health would have offered a good excuse for idleness;
but possessing a spirit of indefatigable industry, she toiled in a
way that reminds us of the singularly meritorious wife mentioned in
Scripture--'She seeketh wool and flax, and worketh willingly with her
hands.... She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth
not the bread of idleness.... Her children arise up, and call her
blessed.' The picture is accurate in every detail. According to the
economy of the period, when as yet the domestic spinning-wheel was in
operation, Mrs Fairbairn bought wool and flax, which she spun into
yarn, reeled into hanks, and gave out to a weaver to be manufactured.
From the varied materials so produced, she provided shirtings, sheets,
and blankets for the family. And not only so, but for some years she
made all the coats, trousers, and other garments for her husband and
sons, besides all the dresses required for her young daughters.
William Fairbairn, the eldest and most notable of her sons, was born
at Kelso, February 19, 1789. There he received a plain elementary
education at the parish school, paddled like other boys in the Tweed,
and acquired a proficiency in climbing the tall picturesque ruins of
the abbey. In 1799, the family were induced to remove to Moy, a farm
a few miles from Dingwall in Ross-shire. Here commenced a desperate
struggle to wring a subsistence out of a piece of land plentifully
dotted over with whins, stones, rocks, and other obstructions. Andrew,
the father, had an opportunity of exercising all the agricultural
knowledge he possessed. Like many Scotsmen in similar circumstances, he
did not despair. To remove the various impediments to the plough, he
adopted an ingenious method. Having managed to draw the large stones
and rocks into heaps, he laid over them quantities of dried whins,
which he set on fire. The stones and rocks became red-hot, and by the
pouring on them of cold water from a bottle, were fractured and blown
to shivers. By the wondering neighbours, this cheap and ready method of
ridding the land of whins and rocks at the same time was considered an
extraordinary performance. Next was instituted a system of draining;
and in two or three years, splendid crops of turnips and barley were
growing on land which had hitherto been little better than a wilderness.
While the family were at Moy, William received no addition to his
education, and had to occupy much of his time as a nurse to his
youngest brother, Peter, then a child of fifteen months old. To relieve
himself of the trouble of carrying the child on his back, he fell on
the device of making a little wagon with four wheels. It was a somewhat
difficult undertaking, for his only tools were a knife, a gimlet, and
an old saw. With these and a red-hot poker to burn holes in the wheels
for the axles, he was able to knock up a small wagon, which proved
quite a success. He dragged Peter about the farm, to the delight of the
infant and the satisfaction of his mother. Encouraged by the success
of the construction, he began to make small boats and mills with his
knife, that were the admiration of neighbouring boys; such performances
giving, as is believed, a bent to his mind as regards mechanical
construction. Some untoward circumstances led Andrew Fairbairn to quit
Moy and to become steward to a Highland laird at Mullochy. In this
situation he remained only two years; and now, disgusted with the
Highlands, he removed with his family, in 1803, back to Kelso. There he
left them while he occupied the position of farm-manager in Yorkshire.
This was a dark period in the history of the Fairbairns. The father
did his best to supply means by transmitting part of his wages, but
the wages were irregularly paid, and sometimes the family were on the
brink of want. Being now a tall lad of fourteen, William made an effort
to get an employment which would bring in a few shillings a week. He
considered himself fortunate in getting work as a mason's labourer
at the building of the new bridge across the Tweed at Kelso--one of
Rennie's handsome structures. When only a few days at this toilsome
employment, William suffered a dire misfortune. By the clumsy
management of a companion in carrying a hand-barrow, a heavy stone fell
on his leg, inflicting a deep wound, and throwing him off work for
nearly three months. When the family were in the depths of penury, the
father succeeded in getting an appointment at Percy Main Colliery, near
South Shields, as steward of a farm belonging to the coal-owners. There
was still the disadvantage of being absent from his family, but the pay
regularly administered put him in comfort, and he had an opportunity of
getting some employment for his eldest son.
The employment so secured was not much to speak of: it was only that
of driving a coal-cart, but nothing better cast up, and was dutifully
endured amidst a dissolute and contentious population, until, at the
instance of the owners of the colliery, William, in 1804, was bound
apprentice for seven years to Mr John Robinson, the engine-wright of
the establishment. Such was the start in life of William Fairbairn
as an engineer. At first, his wages were five, afterwards rising to
twelve, shillings a week; but there was extra work paid for separately,
by which his small wage was often doubled, and he was able to help his
parents, who were struggling with a very limited income.
As we all know, there are two ways of pursuing an industrial occupation
in youth. One is to do no more than what is immediately required,
caring little for the future; the other is to endeavour, by every
available means, to strike out a course of self-improvement, not only
for the pleasure of doing so, but it may be in the hope of reaping
some future advantage. William Fairbairn adopted the latter method
of getting through his apprenticeship. He laid down for himself a
programme of self-instruction, while most other lads about him spent
all their leisure time in coarse and profitless amusements. His weekly
programme is worth the attention of young men placed in similar
circumstances. Every day had its assigned work--Monday evenings, the
study of arithmetic and mensuration. Tuesday, reading history and
poetry. Wednesday, recreation, reading novels and romances. Thursday,
mathematics. Friday, Euclid, trigonometry. Saturday, recreation and
sundries. Sunday, church, reading Milton, &c. These several exercises
were facilitated by books procured from the North-Shields subscription
library, for which his father bought for him a ticket. Besides going
through a course of reading the best historical and other works, which
widened his knowledge and cultivated his feelings, he in a period
of three years went through a complete system of mensuration, and
as much algebra as enabled him to solve an equation; also a course
of trigonometry, navigation, and some other branches of science. At
times he devised pieces of machinery, which taught him the necessity
of arranging and concentrating his ideas in matters of mechanical
ingenuity. Having a taste for music, he made a violin, on which he
taught himself to play familiar Scotch airs, though never with any
degree of brilliance. His mind leaned towards more solid acquirements.
As a kind of promotion, he was removed from the workshop to take charge
of the steam-engine and pumps. Now, he was more his own master, and
had intervals of time at his disposal. No amount of leisure, however,
diverted him from his course of self-culture. His companions spent not
a little time and money in beer-drinking, which kept them in poverty,
and effectually stood in the way of their advancement. One of his early
contemporaries was happily superior to these debasing pursuits. This
was George Stephenson, with whom he became acquainted. George had the
charge of an engine at Willington Ballast Hill, only a mile or two
off, and being recently married, was somewhat pinched in the means of
livelihood. To enable him to earn a few shillings, Fairbairn frequently
took charge of his engine, while he took a turn at heaving ballast out
of the colliery vessels. It is interesting to hear of facts like this
of two men who rose to eminence through self-culture and unrelaxing
perseverance.
At the close of his apprenticeship, and now twenty-two years of
age, William Fairbairn went to London in search of employment as a
millwright or working engineer. At this time Rennie was engaged in
building Waterloo Bridge, and offered work to William Fairbairn.
But--and a sad 'but' it was--the Millwrights' Society, which assumed
the right of determining who should be employed, would not allow work
to be given to him; and for a time, along with a companion similarly
situated, he underwent serious privations. Unless for succour from some
hospitable relatives who gave him a dinner on Sunday, he would have
been well-nigh starved. A brighter day at length dawned. A number of
workmen had the fortitude to resist the monopoly of the Millwrights'
Society, and banding together, set up a Society of free and
independent labourers, under whose auspices Fairbairn got employment
at a patent Ropery at Shadwell. Here and elsewhere he wrought as a
journeyman two years in the metropolis, all the time realising good
wages of from two to three pounds a week, and as formerly occupying
his leisure hours mostly in reading. As he lived moderately, he saved
some money, with which he hoped to push his way forward. Unluckily, he
fell in with a crazy projector, who had devised a plan of delving land
by machinery. The thing was ingenious, but not practicable. Induced to
make a machine for the inventor, Fairbairn's small savings were swept
away. He was more fortunate in his next order. It was to make a machine
for chopping meat for sausages, for which he was promised thirty-three
pounds by a pork-butcher. The machine, constructed with a fly-wheel and
a double crank, with a dozen knives crossing each other, did its work
admirably. The pork-butcher was delighted, and paid handsomely for the
machine.
Put in pocket by this piece of business, Fairbairn proceeded to Dublin
in quest of work, and got employment in constructing nail-making
machinery. This lasted during a summer, and back he came to England,
the voyage by packet to Liverpool occupying two days. A lucky thought
directed him to try Manchester as a field of operations. Here he
received employment from Mr Adam Parkinson, for whom he worked two
years, and from his earnings was able to save twenty pounds, a sum
which he destined to set him up in married life. For several years he
had corresponded with Dorothy Mar, daughter of a farmer at Morpeth, and
for whom he entertained an ardent affection. Fortune, as he imagined,
being now propitious, marriage with Miss Mar could be discreetly
contemplated, and the marriage took place June 16, 1816. The young
pair commenced housekeeping in a very small and modest domicile at
Manchester. William Fairbairn had still to make his way in the world,
and blest with this good wife, set about doing it vigorously. For
certain spheres of usefulness, Manchester offers better scope than
even London. In partnership at first with Mr James Lillie, he began
an independent career as a millwright, or in fact, a contractor for
any large undertaking from a bridge to a spinning-factory. The two in
setting up business had hardly any money, but they had brains, which
had been pretty well exercised, and people were disposed to throw work
in the way of what seemed to be two eager and clever young men. A large
job executed for Mr Murray, a cotton-spinner, put them on their feet.
Well-doing needs only a beginning. Almost immediately followed the
works on a new cotton-mill for Mr John Kennedy, partner in the firm of
Messrs M'Connel and Kennedy, then the largest spinners in the kingdom.
The skilful manner in which improvements were introduced into the new
mill brought a press of orders. The business prospered so greatly,
that at the end of five years the two young men found themselves with
a stock and tools worth five thousand pounds. Large and commodious
premises were erected, and contracts for gigantic works were undertaken
in England, Scotland, and Switzerland.
Fairbairn lived at a time when the world was startled with the marvels
of steam-traction on railways, and he fancied that a similar means of
propulsion could be adopted on canals. In this, after several costly
experiments, he found himself mistaken, and the drainage of money was
so great as to lead to a dissolution of his partnership with Mr Lillie.
Now (1832), he rested entirely on his own energies and resources; but
strong in self-reliance, he had no fears of the result. He turned his
attention to a new branch of engineering manufacture, that of iron
ship-building. For a time he had two establishments, one in London,
the other in Manchester, and collectively employed two thousand hands.
In 1835 began his famous investigations into the strength of iron,
as regards girders, beams, pillars, and so forth; his experiments
being of much scientific and mechanical importance. This, indeed,
might be described as the great work of Fairbairn's life; for from
his discoveries has sprung that remarkable adaptation of cast-iron in
various forms--to house-building, the construction of bridges, and
other works. About the same time, owing to a strike of boiler-makers
at Manchester, he invented a method of riveting the plates of boilers
by machinery, which at once superseded hand-labour. No longer were
people assailed with the din of a hundred hammers riveting together
iron plates; the machine of Fairbairn's invention substituted a rapid,
noiseless, and comparatively cheap method of construction.
Until his fiftieth year, Mr Fairbairn wrote an autobiographical account
of his career, and the projects with which he was concerned, which has
been incorporated in the recently issued work, _The Life of Sir William
Fairbairn, Bart._, by W. Pole (Longmans, 1877). Mr Pole continues
the narrative, but in so fragmentary and meagre a form as to give us
little insight into the private life of the person to whom he refers,
or of the family to which he belonged. Happily we were honoured with
the friendship not only of Sir William, but of his brother, Sir Peter
Fairbairn of Leeds--the brother whom when a child he drew about in a
little wagon of his own making, long ago in the Highlands. Our last
interview with Sir William was shortly before his decease, when on what
we believe was his farewell visit to Scotland. From both brothers we
learned a variety of details relative to their respective professional
pursuits, and on all occasions were struck with the strong practical
common-sense and tact which had guided them through life. From the
humblest possible circumstances, each in his own way had attained
distinction by the exercise of sound judgment and persevering industry
connected with the manufacture of machinery. The lesson which their
lives afforded was this: that success in life is less generally due to
genius than to indomitable diligence along with integrity of character.
Sir William Fairbairn never, as we know, aimed at being a great man.
He wanted only to be useful in his day and generation. His habits of
industry were extraordinary. Besides devoting himself specially to
new mechanical contrivances and scientific researches, he spent much
time in his later years in writing papers for the British Association
and other public bodies. On one subject he fastened keenly. It was
the prevention of smoke from factory chimneys, which he shewed
could be effectually done by a more perfect combustion of fuel.
The paper appeared in the Transactions of the British Association
for 1844. It is doubtful if it made many converts. There seems to
be a determination among manufacturers to disregard all advice or
remonstrance on the subject. For more than thirty years we have used
a plan for consuming smoke with perfect success and considerable
economy of fuel, but our neighbours for the most part perversely go on
polluting the atmosphere as usual.
As is well known, Sir William Fairbairn distinguished himself by his
invention of the tubular iron bridge, sustained without stays, and,
which adopted by Stephenson, was employed in the construction of the
famous tubular iron bridge across the Menai Strait, which is entitled
to be called the mechanical wonder of England. We have never been shot
along in a railway train through that iron tube, formed by a succession
of square cells placed end to end, without thinking of Fairbairn's bold
ingenuity. The reputation he acquired by this and other inventions
of a useful kind brought him honours from numerous quarters. He had
declined to accept a knighthood, and was reserved for the higher
dignity of a baronetcy, which was conferred during Mr Gladstone's
tenure of office in 1869. Two years previously, he had the misfortune
to lose his eldest son, John, a blow which was severely felt by him.
Coming from a long-lived family--his father dying in 1844 at the age of
eighty-six--and tall, robust, and active, he enjoyed health till nearly
the end of his days. He died peacefully August 18, 1874, leaving three
sons and a daughter, also a widow, to mourn his loss. He was succeeded
in the baronetcy by his son Thomas. Though the family wished the
funeral to be private, it was, as a voluntary mark of respect, attended
by upwards of fifty thousand persons. Such was the end of one of the
greatest engineers of our day. His whole life pointed a valuable moral
which it is unnecessary to repeat. His brother, Sir Peter Fairbairn of
Leeds, predeceased him, leaving likewise descendants to perpetuate the
reputation of the Fairbairns.
W. C.
THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.
CHAPTER XXXI.--AT THE STILE.
When was I first conscious of it? When was the first faint shadow of
it perceived by the others? It would be difficult to say precisely
when; but as days went by, some subtle change was taking place and
making itself felt amongst us. Gradually an indefinable something was
extracting the sunshine out of our lives. None of us admitted so much
to each other; indeed I think we were all equally anxious to have it
thought that everything was going on in precisely the same way as
before. And yet--where was the frank confidence and ease which only a
short time previously had so marked our intercourse? It had given place
to constraint, and a restless anxiety to appear unconstrained.
I fancied that I could account for Lilian's nervousness and constraint;
but Philip's gaiety seemed to be growing less and less spontaneous;
and dear old Mrs Tipper looked depressed, not to say unhappy; whilst I
myself felt uncomfortable without being able to trace the cause, unless
it arose from sympathy with the others. In vain did I try to account
for the change. There was certainly no unkindly feeling betwixt us;
indeed I think we were each and all more carefully considerate of each
other's feelings than we had hitherto been, displaying a great deal
more anxiety to prove that the strength of our attachment to each other
was as undiminished as ever.
I felt no shade of difference in my own sentiments; I knew that I felt
towards them precisely the same as before, although I was gradually
adopting their tone. What troubled me most of all was the reserve
growing up between Lilian and me. I tried more than once to break
through it; but her real distress--her tears, as she clung to me,
entreating me to believe in her love, pained without enlightening
me. And when I a little impatiently replied that it rather seemed as
though she did not believe in _my_ love, it only brought more tears and
distress.
She now frequently excused herself from accompanying Philip and me in
our walks and excursions; and shut herself up in her own room many
hours during the day. The explanation that she had taken a fancy for
studying French history, was not a satisfactory one to me. True, there
was evidence that she was diligently plodding through a certain amount
of work; but why should that separate us? The studies she had hitherto
undertaken had not shut me out of her confidence. She had often
declared that the greater part of the enjoyment of such work was to
compare notes with me upon the subjects we were reading; and why should
French history be an exception?
I was beginning to lose patience--mystery has ever been and ever will
be provoking to me--and one evening, when Robert Wentworth asked me
some questions about our work, I irritably replied that he must ask
Lilian; I could only answer for myself now.
'I am only doing a little French history,' she faltered, becoming very
pale, and presently making an excuse for leaving the room.
'What is it? What has so changed her?' I asked, turning towards him.
'I do not observe any particular change,' he replied, lowering his eyes
before mine.
'Pray do not you become as mysterious as the rest,' I said angrily.
But he _was_ mysterious. Even Robert Wentworth, who had always been so
outspoken and unsparing, was becoming considerate even to politeness.
He made no reply, standing before the open window, apparently absorbed
in thought. I was about to add some little remark that I had hitherto
trusted to his friendship, in a tone meant to be caustic, when I caught
sight of his face, and shrank into my shell again. What made him look
like that? What did it mean? And why did he so hurriedly take his
departure the moment old Mrs Tipper came into the room, in a manner as
unlike the Robert Wentworth of the past as it was possible to be?
But it must not be supposed that I was going to succumb to this state
of things. Before I succumbed, I must know the reason why. It would
take a great deal yet to make me lose hope. I had too much respect
for them and belief in the power of my own love, to be without hope
of succeeding in dissipating the clouds which had gathered about us.
The one thing to be done was to find out _what_ it was that had come
between us. Could I once find out that, I should not despair of the
rest. After some anxious reflection, I fancied that I had discovered
the cause of the alteration in Lilian's bearing, and took Philip into
my confidence.
He listened gravely, I thought even anxiously, and yet he did not
appear to think it necessary for me to make any attempt to alter things.
'If--she prefers being more alone, I think--Wouldn't it be best not to
interfere, Mary?'--hesitatingly.
'If I did not care for her, perhaps it would be better not to
interfere, as you term it,' I hotly rejoined. 'But as it happens, I do
care for her, and therefore I cannot see her so changed without making
some effort to help her.'
'No one could doubt your love for her, Mary,' he replied in a low
voice, laying his hand gently upon mine.
'Then how can I help being anxious, especially when I see that it is
not good for her to be moping alone? Any one might see that it is
doing her harm. Cannot _you_ see the difference in her of late?' He
made no reply; and taking his assent for granted, I went on: 'Do you
know I am sadly afraid that she is fretting'---- I did not like to say
plainly about Arthur Trafford, but added: 'She is beginning to look
just as she did in the first shock of finding that she had lost Arthur
Trafford!--Ah, spare my roses!'
He was mercilessly, though I think unconsciously, tearing to pieces a
beautiful bunch of light and dark roses, which had been given to me by
one of the cottagers, scattering the leaves in all directions.
'I--beg your pardon.'
'I really think you ought, sir!' was my playful rejoinder. 'If my path
is to be strewed with roses, we need not be so extravagant as that
about it. I shall not trust you to carry flowers again.'
He remained so long silent, standing in the same position, that I was
about to ask him what he was thinking of, when he impetuously turned
towards me, and hurriedly said: 'Why should there be any longer delay,
Mary? Why cannot our marriage take place at once--next week? For God's
sake, do not let us go on like this!'
'Go on like this!' I repeated, looking up into his face. 'Go on like
this, Philip?'
'Say it shall be soon--say when?' catching my hands in both of his with
a grip which made me wince, as he hurriedly continued: 'Why do you wish
all this delay?'
Had it been spoken in a different tone--had he only _looked_
differently! I tried to believe that it was the eagerness of happiness
in his face; but alas! it looked terribly like misery! For a moment my
heart stood still in an agony of fear; then I put the disloyal doubt
aside, telling myself that it was my too exalted notions which had led
to disappointment. I had expected so much more than any woman has a
right to expect; and so forth. Then after a moment or two, I honestly
replied: 'I do _not_ wish it, Philip. Of course I will say next week,
if you wish it; and'--with a faint little attempt at a jest--'if you do
not mind about my having fewer furbelows to pack?'
'I do wish it; and--and--until then I must ask you to excuse my not
coming down quite so regularly. So much to arrange, you know,' he
hastily continued, 'in case we should take it into our heads to remain
abroad some time.'
'Yes; very well,' I murmured, as one in a dream. It was all so
different--so terribly different from anything I had expected.
But I soon persuaded myself that the fault, if fault there were, must
be mine. How could he be changed--or if he were, why should _he_ so
eagerly urge me to delay our marriage no longer?
As if to rebuke my doubt, he turned towards me and gently said: 'God
grant that I may be worthy of you, Mary! You are a good woman. I must
hope in time to be more worthy of you.'
I was conscious that just then I could have better borne a loving jest
at my imperfections than this little set speech of praise. I never
before cared so little about being a 'good woman' as I did at that
moment. But I told myself that I would not be critical--how horribly
critical I seemed to be growing! So I looked up into his face with a
smile, as I said something about his being perfect enough for me.
'You are good.'
'Oh, please do not say anything more about my goodness!'
There was another pause; and then he said: 'I think you mentioned that
you wished it to be a quiet affair, Mary, and at the little church in
the vale--St John's, isn't it called?'
'Yes, Philip.'
'And you must let me know what I ought to do besides procuring the
ring and license. I am sure you will give me credit for wishing not to
be remiss in any way, and will not mind giving me a hint if I appear
likely to fall short in any of the--proper observances.'
Proper observances! How coldly the words struck upon me!
'Shall you not come down _once_, Philip?' I murmured.
'Once? O yes, of course; and--you can give me any little commission by
letter, you know.'
Then looking at his watch, he found that he might catch the eight
o'clock train, and hastily bade me good-night; asking me to excuse him
at the cottage, and tell them about our plans.
'Eh bien, Philippe,' I returned, more disappointed than I should
have cared to acknowledge at his not asking me to accompany him the
remainder of the distance to the stile, to which I always walked with
him when Robert Wentworth was not with us. Moreover, I thought that the
parting kiss was to be forgotten. I believe that it _was_ forgotten for
a moment. But he turned back and pressed his lips for a moment upon my
brow.
'Good-night, Mary. God grant I may be worthy of you!'
'Good-night, Philip,' I faltered.
As in a dream I walked down the lane, entered the cottage, and turned
into the little parlour, not a little relieved to find no one there.
The heat was almost stifling, the swallows flying low beneath the
lowering sky, and there was the heavy stillness--the, so to speak,
pause in the atmosphere which presages a coming storm. The windows
and doors were flung wide open; and I could hear Mrs Tipper and Becky
talking to each other in their confidential way, as they bustled in and
out the back garden, fetching in the clothes, which the former always
put out to 'sweeten,' as she termed it, after they were returned from
the wash. Lilian was, I suppose, in her own room, as her habit was of
late.
Throwing off my hat, I sat down, and with my hands tightly locked upon
my lap, I tried to think--to understand my own sensations, asking
myself over and over again what was wrong--what made me like this? half
conscious all the while of a discussion over a hole in a tablecloth,
that ought not to have been allowed to get to such a stage without
being darned.
'A stitch in time saves nine, you know, Becky; never you leave a thin
place, and you'll never have a hole to mend;' and so on.
Suddenly, as my eyes wandered aimlessly about the room, they fell upon
some documents on the table referring to the sale of Hill Side, which
Philip had brought down to shew us, and which I knew he had intended
to take away. Reflecting that he was very desirous of completing the
purchase, that the delay of a post might make a difference, and that
I might yet overtake him if I were quick, I hurriedly caught up the
papers in my hand and ran down the lane towards the stile. Have I
mentioned that there was a sharp curve in the lane before it reached
the stile, so that you came close upon the latter before it was in
sight? I had just arrived at the curve when the sound of voices reached
me; and recollecting that I had not waited to put my hat on, and not
wishing to be recognised by any one, I paused a moment to draw the hood
of my cloak over my head.
Robert Wentworth and Philip! I had time for a moment's surprise that
the former should be there when we had not seen him at the cottage,
before Philip's words reached me: 'And you have been waiting here to
say this to me. But I am not so base as that, Wentworth! I have just
begged her to be my wife at once, and she has consented. She suspects
nothing.'
'Thank God for that!' ejaculated Robert Wentworth.
I could not have moved now had my life depended upon it--though my
life _did_ seem to depend upon it. 'Suspect what? What was there to
suspect?' I asked myself in a bewildered kind of way.
'God grant that she may be always spared the knowledge!'
'She shall be, Wentworth, if it be in my power to spare her.'
'Great heavens! that it should be possible to love another woman after
knowing her! Man, you never can have known her as she is, or it would
be impossible for another woman to come between you. The other is no
more to be compared'----
'Respect her, Wentworth; blame me as you will, but respect Lilian.'
'Lilian!' I muttered--'Lilian!'
'She is, I think--I trust, utterly unconscious of my--madness. But if
she knew, and if she--cared for me, she would be loyal to the right.
You ought to be sure of that, knowing what her love for Mary is,
Wentworth.'
'Yes; she is true; she will try to be true. But it is quite time
that'----
I knew that the voices sounded fainter and fainter, and that the sense
of the words became lost to me, because they were walking on; I knew
that they were great drops of rain and _not_ tears pattering down upon
me where I lay prone upon the ground; and I could recollect that the
papers must not be lost; so I had kept my senses.
THE STORY OF THE QUIGRICH OR STAFF OF ST FILLAN.
The recent acquisition of that curious medieval work of art called
the Quigrich or crosier of St Fillan by the Society of Antiquaries of
Scotland, and its final deposit in their National Museum at Edinburgh,
is in itself an incident of more than ordinary interest. Apart from its
historical associations, the 'Cogerach,' 'Coygerach,' or 'Quigrich,'
as it is variously styled in writings of the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries, is unsurpassed in interest as a work of art of a class and
period of which no other Scottish specimen is now known to exist.
Briefly described, it is simply the massive silver head of a pastoral
staff of the form peculiar to the Celtic Church in very early times.
Its shape resembles that of the bent head of a walking-stick, with a
slanting prolongation of the outer end. The lower part of the crook
expands into a large bulbous socket, beautifully ornamented with
interlaced knot-work. A ridge or crest, pierced with quatrefoils,
rises from the socket, and is continued over the back of the crook,
terminating in the bust of an ecclesiastic, probably meant for St
Fillan. The slanting front of the staff-head is ornamented by a large
oval setting of cairngorm, and the terminal plate has an engraved
representation of the Crucifixion. The body of the crook is covered
with lozenge-shaped plaques of filigree-work in floral scrolls.
What may be termed the private history of the crosier commences in the
early part of the eighth century, when as the _bacul_ or walking-staff
of St Fillan, it accompanied him in his missionary journey to the wilds
of Glendochart. The saint came of a royal race. His mother, Kentigerna,
was a daughter of the king of Leinster; and both she and her brother
St Comgan are enrolled among the saints of Celtic Alba. Placed often
in the darkest and wildest districts of the country, solely with the
view of reclaiming the people from paganism and diffusing the benefits
of Christian civilisation, these monastic churches were truly centres
of light and progress. Such was the famous church of Columcille at
Hy. Such also was the monastery of St Mund at the Holy Loch, where St
Fillan spent part of his days, and in which he succeeded the founder as
abbot. Growing weary of its comparatively peaceful life, he sought a
desert for himself in the wilds of Glendochart, where he might reclaim
a new garden for the church, and close his days among an ecclesiastical
family of his own uprearing. As founder and first abbot of Glendochart
his memory would be fondly cherished by the community of clerics over
whom he had presided. Their veneration would increase with time, as the
traditions of his saintly life became fixed by constant repetition; and
there was no object around which that veneration and these legends
could more appropriately cluster than around the staff which was the
symbol of his abbatial office, and the lasting memorial of his presence
among them.
Not the least interesting of the many picturesque associations which
gather round the crosier of St Fillan is that which connects it with
Scotland's warrior-king, Robert Bruce, and assigns to it a prominent
part in the great struggle for Scottish independence that culminated
in the glorious victory of Bannockburn. There is no evidence on record
by which we can positively prove the presence of the crosier on the
eventful field; but it is the tradition of the Dewars, its hereditary
keepers, that it was there; and there is evidence that certain other
relics of St Fillan were brought to the battle-field by the abbot of
Inchaffray, the ecclesiastical superior of the church of Strathfillan,
who was the king's confessor; and that this was done, if not by the
king's express desire, at least in the knowledge that it would be
consonant with his personal feelings and belief in their efficacy. If
the narrative that was written by Boece is to be accepted at all, it
must be accepted to the extent of establishing that there _was_ a relic
of St Fillan at Bannockburn. He calls it the arm-bone of the saint, and
tells in his picturesque way that when the king, being sorely troubled
in mind on the evening before the battle, had retired into his tent,
and was engaged in prayer to God and St Fillan, suddenly the silver
case which contained the arm-bone of the saint opened of itself, and
shewed him the relic, and then 'clakkit to again.' The priest who had
charge of it immediately proclaimed a miracle, declaring that he had
brought into the field only the 'tume cais' (empty case), being fearful
lest the precious relic should fall into the hands of the English.
If we accept Boece's statement to the extent of believing on the
strength of it that any of the relics of St Fillan were brought to the
field, we may believe that they were all there, and that they were
carried round the army on the morning of the fight, when the abbot of
Inchaffray walked barefooted in front of the ranks bearing aloft 'the
croce in quhilk the crucifix wes hingin.' That such practices were not
uncommon is gleaned from other instances, such as that of the crosier
of St Columba--the _Cath Bhuaidh_ or 'Battle-Victory'--so named because
it used to give the victory to the men of Alba when carried to their
battles. If then the crosier of St Fillan was present at the battle of
Bannockburn, and the victory was ascribed to the saint's intervention,
this may have been the occasion of its being glorified with such a
magnificent silver shrine.
But if it had no public history and no picturesque associations, the
story of its transmission from age to age, linked as it was with
the chequered fortunes of the religious foundation to which it was
attached, and of the strange and varied circumstances in which it has
been preserved by a succession of hereditary keepers, through failing
fortunes and changes of faith, in poverty and exile, is sufficient to
invest it with surpassing interest.
Since its arrival at Edinburgh the singular discovery has been made
that the gilt silver casing of the crosier had been constructed for
the purpose of inclosing an older staff-head of cast bronze. This has
been taken out of its concealment, and is now exhibited alongside the
silver one. The surface of this older crosier is divided into panels
by raised ridges ornamented with niello. These panels correspond in
number, shape, and size to the silver plaques now on the external
casing, and they are pierced with rivet-holes which also correspond
with the position of the pins by which the plaques are fastened. It is
thus clear that when the old crosier was incased, it was first stripped
of its ornamental plaques of filigree-work, which were again used in
making up the external covering so far as they were available. Such of
them as had been either entirely absent, or so much worn as to require
redecoration, were renewed in a style so different from the original
workmanship, as to demonstrate that it is a mere imitation of an art
with which the workman was unfamiliar. This establishes two distinct
phases in the history of the crosier, and suggests that at some
particular period, a special occasion had arisen for thus glorifying
the old relic with a costly enshrinement. What that occasion was may be
inferred from some considerations connected with its public history.
We know nothing of the history of St Fillan's foundation during the
first five centuries, in which the founder's staff passed through
the hands of his various successors as the symbol of office of the
abbot of Glendochart. But in the time of King William the Lion, we
find that the office had become secularised, and the abbot appears
as a great lay lord, ranking after the Earl of Athole, and appointed
alternatively with him as the holder of the assize, in all cases of
stolen cattle in that district of Scotland. Whether he held the crosier
in virtue of his office we cannot tell; but the likelihood is that it
was when the office was first usurped by a layman, that the crosier
was placed by the last of the true successors of St Fillan in the
custody of a 'dewar' or hereditary keeper, with the dues and privileges
which we afterwards find attached to this office. Such an arrangement
was not uncommon in connection with similar relics of the ancient
Celtic church. We thus find the dewar of the Cogerach of St Fillan in
possession of the lands of Eyich in Glendochart in 1336. In process of
time the official title of dewar became the family surname of Dewar;
and we have a curious instance of the Celtic form of the patronymic in
a charter granted in 1575 by Duncan Campbell of Glenorchy to Donald Mac
in Deora vic Cogerach.
The inquiry is naturally suggested why a relic with such associations,
intrinsically so valuable, and always so highly venerated, should have
been allowed to remain in the possession of laymen, and to be kept in
their private dwellings, often no better than turf cottages in the
glen. The crosier was splendid enough to have graced the processional
ceremonials of the highest dignitary of the Church, and thus to have
been a coveted acquisition to the richest monastery in the land. That
it was so coveted may be fairly inferred from the fact that on the 22d
April 1428, John de Spens of Perth, Bailie of Glendochart, summoned an
inquest of the men of Glendochart to hold inquisition regarding the
authority and privileges of 'a certain relick of St Felane called the
Coygerach.' Of the fifteen summoned, three were Macnabs, deriving
their origin from the son of a former abbot; three were of the clan
Gregor; and one was named Felan, after the saint. Their verdict sets
forth that the Coygerach was in the rightful possession of the deoire,
because the office of bearing it had been given hereditarily by the
successor of St Fillan to a certain progenitor of Finlay, the deoire
at the time of the inquest; that the privileges pertaining to the
office had been enjoyed and in use since the days of King Robert Bruce;
and that when cattle or goods were stolen or taken by force from any
inhabitant of the glen, and they were unable to follow them from fear
or feud, the dewar was bound to follow the cattle or goods wherever
they might be found throughout the kingdom.
We hear no more of the rights of the Cogerach till 1487, when the dewar
sought the sanction of the royal prerogative to aid him in holding
his charge with all its ancient rights. In that year, King James III.
issued letters of confirmation under the Privy Seal, in favour of
Malice Doire, who, as the document sets forth, 'has had a relic of St
Felan called the Quigrich in keeping of us and our progenitors since
the time of King Robert Bruce, and of before, and has made no obedience
or answer to any person spiritual or temporal in any thing concerning
it, in any other way than is contained in the auld infeftment granted
by our progenitors.' The object was to establish the rights of the
Crown in the relic, as distinguished from the rights of the Church;
and we may presume that the royal infeftment to which it refers may
have been granted by Bruce on the occasion when the old crosier was
glorified by incasement in a silver shrine, in token of the king's
humble gratitude to God and St Fillan for the victory of Bannockburn.
We find traces of the dewars and their lands in charters down to the
time of Queen Mary. The Reformation deprived them of their living, and
converted the relic, of which they were the keepers, into a 'monument
of idolatry,' fit only to be consigned to the crucible. Still they were
faithful to their trust, although instead of emolument it could only
bring them trouble. In the succeeding centuries their fortunes fell to
a low ebb indeed. In 1782 a passing tourist saw the Quigrich in the
house of Malice Doire, a day-labourer in Killin. His son, a youth of
nineteen, lay in an outer apartment at the last gasp of consumption;
and the traveller was so moved by concern for the probable fate of
the Quigrich, in the prospect of the speedy death of the heir to this
inestimable possession, that he wrote an account of the circumstances,
and transmitted it, with a drawing of the crosier, to the Society
of Antiquaries of Scotland. At that time the Society could not have
acquired it; but fortunately their intervention was not necessary for
its preservation. On the failure of the older line, by the death of
this youth, the relic passed into the hands of a younger brother of
Malice Doire's. His son removed to Glenartney, where the Quigrich was
again seen by Dr Jamieson, and was described by him in his edition
of Barbour's _Bruce_. Archibald Dewar removed from Glenartney to
Balquhidder, where he rented a sheep-farm; but having suffered heavy
losses at the close of the French war in 1815, he emigrated to Canada,
where he died, aged seventy-five.
His son, Alexander Dewar, the last of the hereditary dewars of
the Crosier, is a hale old man of eighty-eight, in comfortable
circumstances, the patriarch of a new race of Dewars, rejoicing in
upwards of thirty grandchildren, and nephews and nieces innumerable.
It is in consequence of his desire to see the ancient relic returned
to Scotland before he dies, and placed in the National Museum at
Edinburgh, 'there to remain in all time coming for the use, benefit,
and enjoyment of the Scottish nation,' that the Society of Antiquaries
has been enabled, partly by purchase and partly by his donation, to
acquire the Quigrich, the most remarkable of all existing relics
associated with the early history of the Scottish nation.
It was five centuries old before the light of authentic record reveals
it in 1336 in possession of the dewar Cogerach, and since then it can
be traced uninterruptedly in the line of the Dewars for five hundred
and forty years. 'Its associations with the Scottish monarchy,' says
Dr Daniel Wilson, 'are older than the Regalia, so sacredly guarded in
the castle of Edinburgh; and its more sacred memories carry back the
fancy to the primitive missionaries of the Christian faith, when the
son of St Kentigerna, of the royal race of Leinster, withdrew to the
wilderness of Glendochart, and there initiated the good work which has
ever since made Strathfillan famous in the legendary history of the
Scottish Church.'
COUSIN DICK.
Mr and Mrs Woodford were enjoying a confidential matrimonial chat
over their _tête-à-tête_ dessert, and discussing at some length the
antecedents and probable future of a cousin, Mr Richard Broughton,
who had lately dropped down on them, not from the clouds, but from a
Liverpool express train. This gentleman had in his youth been 'crossed
in love.' Always a musical enthusiast, he had become attached to an
amiable girl, a young concert-singer, who was the main stay of her
mother--the widow of a captain in the army--and some younger sisters;
and having himself not yet made a fair start in life, the elders of
both families rose up in arms against the alliance.