YEAR 1797
WHEN I have seen in my walks the irrational creatures of God, the birds
and the beasts, governed by a kindly instinct in attendance on their
young, often has it come into my head that love and charity, far more
than reason or justice, formed the tie that holds the world, with all its
jarring wants and woes, in social dependence and obligation together;
and, in this year, a strong verification of the soundness of this notion
was exemplified in the conduct of the poor haverel lassie Meg Gaffaw,
whose naturality on the occasion of her mother’s death I have related at
length in this chronicle.
In the course of the summer, Mr. Henry Melcomb, who was a nephew to Mr.
Cayenne, came down from England to see his uncle. He had just completed
his education at the college of Christ Church, in Oxford, and was the
most perfect young gentleman that had ever been seen in this part of the
country.
In his appearance he was a very paragon, with a fine manly countenance,
frank-hearted, blithe, and, in many points of character, very like my old
friend the Lord Eaglesham, who was shot. Indeed, in some respects, he
was even above his lordship; for he had a great turn at ready wit, and
could joke and banter in a most agreeable manner. He came very often to
the manse to see me, and took great pleasure in my company, and really
used a freedom that was so droll, I could scarcely keep my composity and
decorum with him. Among others that shared in his attention, was daft
Meg Gaffaw, whom he had forgathered with one day in coming to see me; and
after conversing with her for some time, he handed her, as she told me
herself, over the kirk-stile like a lady of high degree, and came with
her to the manse door linking by the arm.
From the ill-timed daffin of that hour, poor Meg fell deep in love with
Mr. Melcomb; and it was just a playacting to see the arts and antics she
put in practice to win his attention. In her garb, she had never any
sense of a proper propriety, but went about the country asking for
shapings of silks and satins, with which she patched her duds, calling
them by the divers names of robes and negligées. All hitherto, however,
had been moderation, compared to the daffadile of vanity which she was
now seen, when she had searched, as she said, to the bottom of her
coffer. I cannot take it upon me to describe her; but she kythed in such
a variety of cuffs and ruffles, feathers, old gumflowers, painted paper
knots, ribbons, and furs, and laces, and went about gecking and simpering
with an old fan in her hand, that it was not in the power of nature to
look at her with sobriety.
Her first appearance in this masquerading was at the kirk on the Sunday
following her adventure with Mr. Melcomb, and it was with a sore
difficulty that I could keep my eyes off her, even in prayer; and when
the kirk skailed, she walked before him, spreading all her grandeur to
catch his eye, in such a manner as had not been seen or heard of since
the prank that Lady Macadam played Miss Betty Wudrife.
Any other but Mr. Melcomb would have been provoked by the fool’s folly;
but he humoured her wit, and, to the amazement of the whole people,
presented her his hand, and allemanded her along in a manner that should
not have been seen in any street out of a king’s court, and far less on
the Lord’s day. But, alas! this sport did not last long. Mr. Melcomb
had come from England to be ‘married’ to his cousin, Miss Virginia
Cayenne, and poor daft Meg never heard of it till the banns for their
purpose of marriage was read out by Mr. Lorimore on the Sabbath after.
The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when the simple and innocent
natural gave a loud shriek, that terrified the whole congregation, and
ran out of the kirk demented. There was no more finery for poor Meg; but
she went and sat opposite to the windows of Mr. Cayenne’s house, where
Mr. Melcomb was, with clasped hands and beseeching eyes, like a
monumental statue in alabaster, and no entreaty could drive her away.
Mr. Melcomb sent her money, and the bride many a fine thing; but Meg
flung them from her, and clasped her hands again, and still sat. Mr.
Cayenne would have let loose the house-dog on her, but was not permitted.
In the evening it began to rain, and they thought that and the coming
darkness would drive her away; but when the servants looked out before
barring the doors, there she was in the same posture. I was to perform
the marriage ceremony at seven o’clock in the morning, for the young pair
were to go that night to Edinburgh; and when I went, there was Meg
sitting looking at the windows with her hands clasped. When she saw me
she gave a shrill cry, and took me by the hand, and wised me to go back,
crying out in a heart-breaking voice, “O, Sir! No yet—no yet! He’ll
maybe draw back, and think of a far truer bride.” I was wae for her and
very angry with the servants for laughing at the fond folly of the
ill-less thing.
When the marriage was over, and the carriage at the door, the bridegroom
handed in the bride. Poor Meg saw this, and jumping up from where she
sat, was at his side like a spirit, as he was stepping in, and, taking
him by the hand, she looked in his face so piteously, that every heart
was sorrowful, for she could say nothing. When he pulled away his hand,
and the door was shut, she stood as if she had been charmed to the spot,
and saw the chaise drive away. All that were about the door then spoke
to her, but she heard us not. At last she gave a deep sigh, and the
water coming into her eye, she said, “The worm—the worm is my bonny
bridegroom, and Jenny with the many-feet my bridal maid. The mill-dam
water’s the wine o’ the wedding, and the clay and the clod shall be my
bedding. A lang night is meet for a bridal, but none shall be langer
than mine.” In saying which words, she fled from among us, with heels
like the wind. The servants pursued; but long before they could stop
her, she was past redemption in the deepest plumb of the cotton-mill dam.
Few deaths had for many a day happened in the parish, to cause so much
sorrow as that of this poor silly creature. She was a sort of household
familiar among us, and there was much like the inner side of wisdom in
the pattern of her sayings, many of which are still preserved as
proverbs.