ALEXANDER GRAHAM.
As soon as his grandfather left the house, Malcolm went out also,
closing the door behind him, and turning the key, but leaving it
in the lock. He ascended to the upper town, only, however, to pass
through its main street, at the top of which he turned and looked
back for a few moments, apparently in contemplation. The descent to
the shore was so sudden that he could see nothing of the harbour
or of the village he had left--nothing but the blue bay and
the filmy mountains of Sutherlandshire, molten by distance into
cloudy questions, and looking, betwixt blue sea and blue sky, less
substantial than either. After gazing for a moment, he turned again,
and held on his way, through fields which no fence parted from the
road. The morning was still glorious, the larks right jubilant,
and the air filled with the sweet scents of cottage flowers. Across
the fields came the occasional low of an ox, and the distant sounds
of children at play. But Malcolm saw without noting, and heard
without heeding, for his mind was full of speculation concerning
the lovely girl, whose vision appeared already far off:--who might
she be? whence had she come? whither could she have vanished? That
she did not belong to the neighbourhood was certain, he thought; but
there was a farm house near the sea-town where they let lodgings;
and, although it was early in the season, she might belong to some
family which had come to spend a few of the summer weeks there;
possibly his appearance had prevented her from having her bath
that morning. If he should have the good fortune to see her again,
he would show her a place far fitter for the purpose--a perfect
arbour of rocks, utterly secluded, with a floor of deep sand, and
without a hole for crab or lobster.
His road led him in the direction of a few cottages lying in
a hollow. Beside them rose a vision of trees, bordered by an ivy-grown
wall, from amidst whose summits shot the spire of the church;
and from beyond the spire, through the trees, came golden glimmers
as of vane and crescent and pinnacled ball, that hinted at some
shadowy abode of enchantment within; but as he descended the slope
towards the cottages the trees gradually rose and shut in everything.
These cottages were far more ancient than the houses of the town,
were covered with green thatch, were buried in ivy, and would
soon be radiant with roses and honey-suckles. They were gathered
irregularly about a gate of curious old iron-work, opening on the
churchyard, but more like an entrance to the grounds behind the
church, for it told of ancient state, bearing on each of its pillars
a great stone heron with a fish in its beak.
This was the quarter whence had come the noises of children, but
they had now ceased, or rather sunk into a gentle murmur, which
oozed, like the sound of bees from a straw-covered bee-hive, out
of a cottage rather larger than the rest, which stood close by the
churchyard gate. It was the parish school, and these cottages were
all that remained of the old town of Portlossie, which had at one
time stretched in a long irregular street almost to the shore.
The town cross yet stood, but away solitary on a green hill that
overlooked the sands.
During the summer the long walk from the new town to the school
and to the church was anything but a hardship: in winter it was
otherwise, for then there were days in which few would venture the
single mile that separated them.
The door of the school, bisected longitudinally, had one of its
halves open, and by it outflowed the gentle hum of the honey-bees
of learning. Malcolm walked in, and had the whole of the busy scene
at once before him. The place was like a barn, open from wall to
wall, and from floor to rafters and thatch, browned with the peat
smoke of vanished winters. Two thirds of the space were filled
with long desks and forms; the other had only the master’s desk,
and thus afforded room for standing classes. At the present moment
it was vacant, for the prayer was but just over, and the Bible class
had not been called up: there Alexander Graham, the schoolmaster,
descending from his desk, met and welcomed Malcolm with a kind
shake of the hand. He was a man of middle height, but very thin;
and about five and forty years of age, but looked older, because
of his thin grey hair and a stoop in the shoulders. He was dressed
in a shabby black tail-coat, and clean white neckcloth; the rest of
his clothes were of parson grey, noticeably shabby also. The quiet
sweetness of his smile, and a composed look of submission were
suggestive of the purification of sorrow, but were attributed by the
townsfolk to disappointment; for he was still but a schoolmaster,
whose aim they thought must be a pulpit and a parish. But Mr Graham
had been early released from such an ambition, if it had ever
possessed him, and had for many years been more than content to
give himself to the hopefuller work of training children for the
true ends of life: he lived the quietest of studious lives, with
an old housekeeper.
Malcolm had been a favourite pupil, and the relation of master
and scholar did not cease when the latter saw that he ought to do
something to lighten the burden of his grandfather, and so left
the school and betook himself to the life of a fisherman--with
the slow leave of Duncan, who had set his heart on making a scholar
of him, and would never, indeed, had Gaelic been amongst his studies,
have been won by the most laboursome petition. He asserted himself
perfectly able to provide for both for ten years to come at least,
in proof of which he roused the inhabitants of Portlossie, during
the space of a whole month, a full hour earlier than usual, with
the most terrific blasts of the bagpipes, and this notwithstanding
complaint and expostulation on all sides, so that at length the
provost had to interfere; after which outburst of defiance to time,
however, his energy had begun to decay so visibly that Malcolm gave
himself to the pipes in secret, that he might be ready, in case
of sudden emergency, to take his grandfather’s place; for Duncan
lived in constant dread of the hour when his office might be taken
from him and conferred on a mere drummer, or, still worse, on a
certain ne’er-do-weel cousin of the provost, so devoid of music as
to be capable only of ringing a bell.
“I’ve had an invitation to Miss Campbell’s funeral--Miss Horn’s
cousin, you know,” said Mr Graham, in a hesitating and subdued
voice: “could you manage to take the school for me, Malcolm?”
“Yes, sir. There’s naething to hinner me. What day is ’t upo’?”
“Saturday.”
“Verra weel, sir. I s’ be here in guid time.”
This matter settled, the business of the school, in which, as he
did often, Malcolm had come to assist, began. Only a pupil of his
own could have worked with Mr Graham, for his mode was very peculiar.
But the strangest fact in it would have been the last to reveal
itself to an ordinary observer. This was, that he rarely contradicted
anything: he would call up the opposing truth, set it face to face
with the error, and leave the two to fight it out. The human mind
and conscience were, he said, the plains of Armageddon, where the
battle of good and evil was for ever raging; and the one business
of a teacher was to rouse and urge this battle by leading fresh
forces of the truth into the field--forces composed as little
as might be of the hireling troops of the intellect, and as much
as possible of the native energies of the heart, imagination, and
conscience. In a word, he would oppose error only by teaching the
truth.
In early life he had come under the influence of the writings of
William Law, which he read as one who pondered every doctrine in
that light which only obedience to the truth can open upon it. With
a keen eye for the discovery of universal law in the individual
fact, he read even the marvels of the New Testament practically.
Hence, in training his soldiers, every lesson he gave them was a
missile; every admonishment of youth or maiden was as the mounting
of an armed champion, and the launching of him with a _God-speed_ into
the thick of the fight.
He now called up the Bible class, and Malcolm sat beside and
listened. That morning they had to read one of the chapters in the
history of Jacob.
“Was Jacob a good man?” he asked, as soon as the reading, each of
the scholars in turn taking a verse, was over.
An apparently universal expression of assent followed; halting its
wake, however, came the voice of a boy near the bottom of the class:
“Wasna he some dooble, sir?”
“You are right, Sheltie,” said the master; “he _was_ double. I must,
I find, put the question in another shape:--Was Jacob a bad man?”
Again came such a burst of yesses that it might have been taken
for a general hiss. But limping in the rear came again the
half-dissentient voice of Jamie Joss, whom the master had just addressed
as Sheltie:
“Pairtly, sir.”
“You think, then, Sheltie, that a man may be both bad and good?”
“I dinna ken, sir. I think he may be whiles ane an’ whiles the
ither, an’ whiles maybe it wad be ill to say whilk. Oor collie’s
whiles in twa min’s whether he’ll du what he’s telled or no.”
“That’s the battle of Armageddon, Sheltie, my man. It’s aye ragin’,
ohn gun roared or bayonet clashed. Ye maun up an’ do yer best in ’t,
my man. Gien ye dee fechtin’ like a man, ye’ll flee up wi’ a quaiet
face an’ wide open een; an’ there’s a great Ane ’at’ll say to ye,
‘Weel dune, laddie!’ But gien ye gie in to the enemy, he’ll turn ye
intill a creepin’ thing ’at eats dirt; an’ there’ll no be a hole
in a’ the crystal wa’ o’ the New Jerusalem near eneuch to the grun’
to lat ye creep throu’.”
As soon as ever Alexander Graham, the polished thinker and
sweet-mannered gentleman, opened his mouth concerning the things he
loved best, that moment the most poetic forms came pouring out in
the most rugged speech.
“I reckon, sir,” said Sheltie, “Jacob hadna fouchten oot his battle.”
“That’s jist it, my boy. And because he wouldna get up and fecht
manfully, God had to tak him in han’. Ye’ve heard tell o’ generals,
whan their troops war rinnin’ awa’, haein’ to cut this man doon,
shute that ane, and lick anither, till he turned them a’ richt face
aboot and drave them on to the foe like a spate! And the trouble
God took wi’ Jacob wasna lost upon him at last.”
“An’ what cam o’ Esau, sir?” asked a pale-faced maiden with blue
eyes. “He wasna an ill kin’ o’ a chield--was he, sir?”
“No, Mappy,” answered the master; “he was a fine chield, as you
say; but he nott (_needed_) mair time and gentler treatment to mak
onything o’ him. Ye see he had a guid hert, but was a duller kin’
o’ cratur a’thegither, and cared for naething he could na see or
hanle. He never thoucht muckle aboot God at a’. Jacob was anither
sort--a poet kin’ o’ a man, but a sneck-drawin’ cratur for a’
that. It was easier, hooever, to get the slyness oot o’ Jacob, than
the dulness oot o’ Esau. Punishment tellt upo’ Jacob like upon a
thin-skinned horse, whauras Esau was mair like the minister’s powny,
that can hardly be made to unnerstan’ that ye want him to gang on.
But o’ the ither han’, dullness is a thing that can be borne wi’:
there’s nay hurry aboot that; but the deceitfu’ tricks o’ Jacob war
na to be endured, and sae the tawse (_leather-strap_) cam doon upo’
_him_.”
“An’ what for didna God mak Esau as clever as Jacob?” asked a
wizened-faced boy near the top of the class.
“Ah, my Peery!” said Mr Graham, “I canna tell ye that. A’ that I can
tell is, that God hadna dune makin’ at him, an’ some kin’ o’ fowk
tak langer to mak oot than ithers. An’ ye canna tell what they’re
to be till they’re made oot. But whether what I tell ye be richt
or no, God maun hae the verra best o’ rizzons for ’t, ower guid
maybe for us to unnerstan’---the best o’ rizzons for Esau himsel’, I
mean, for the Creator luiks efter his cratur first ava’ (_of all_).
--And now,” concluded Mr Graham, resuming his English, “go to your
lessons; and be diligent, that God may think it worth while to get
on faster with the making of you.”
In a moment the class was dispersed and all were seated. In another,
the sound of scuffling arose, and fists were seen storming across
a desk.
“Andrew Jamieson and Poochy, come up here,” said the master in a
loud voice.
“_He_ hittit me first,” cried Andrew, the moment they were within a
respectful distance of the master, whereupon Mr Graham turned to
the other with inquiry in his eyes.
“He had nae business to ca’ me Poochy.”
“No more he had; but you had just as little right to punish him
for it. The offence was against me: he had no right to use my name
for you, and the quarrel was mine. For the present you are Poochy
no more: go to your place, William Wilson.”
The boy burst out sobbing, and crept back to his seat with his
knuckles in his eyes.
“Andrew Jamieson,” the master went on, “I had almost got a name
for you, but you have sent it away. You are not ready for it yet,
I see. Go to your place.”
With downcast looks Andrew followed William, and the watchful eyes
of the master saw that, instead of quarrelling any more during
the day, they seemed to catch at every opportunity of showing each
other a kindness.
Mr Graham never used bodily punishment: he ruled chiefly by the
aid of a system of individual titles, of the mingled characters of
pet-name and nickname. As soon as the individuality of a boy had
attained to signs of blossoming--that is, had become such that
he could predict not only an upright but a characteristic behaviour
in given circumstances, he would take him aside and whisper in his
ear that henceforth, so long as he deserved it, he would call him
by a certain name--one generally derived from some object in the
animal or vegetable world, and pointing to a resemblance which was
not often patent to any eye but the master’s own. He had given the
name of _Poochy_, for instance to William Wilson, because, like the
kangaroo, he sought his object in a succession of awkward, yet not
the less availing leaps--gulping his knowledge and pocketing his
conquered marble after a like fashion. _Mappy_, the name which thus
belonged to a certain flaxen haired, soft-eyed girl, corresponds
to the English _bunny_. _Sheltie_ is the small Scotch mountain-pony,
active and strong. _Peery_ means _pegtop_. But not above a quarter of
the children had pet names. To gain one was to reach the highest
honour of the school; the withdrawal of it was the severest of
punishments, and the restoring of it the sign of perfect reconciliation.
The master permitted no one else to use it, and was seldom known
to forget himself so far as to utter it while its owner was in
disgrace. The hope of gaining such a name, or the fear of losing
it, was in the pupil the strongest ally of the master, the most
powerful enforcement of his influences. It was a scheme of government
by aspiration. But it owed all its operative power to the character
of the man who had adopted rather than invented it--for the scheme
had been suggested by a certain passage in the book of the Revelation.
Without having read a word of Swedenborg, he was a believer in the
absolute correspondence of the inward and outward; and, thus long
before the younger Darwin arose, had suspected a close relationship
--remote identity, indeed, in nature and history--between the
animal and human worlds. But photographs from a good many different
points would be necessary to afford anything like a complete notion
of the character of this country schoolmaster.
Towards noon, while he was busy with an astronomical class,
explaining, by means partly of the blackboard, partly of two boys
representing the relation of the earth and the moon, how it comes
that we see but one half of the latter, the door gently opened
and the troubled face of the mad laird peeped slowly in. His body
followed as gently, and at last--sad symbol of his weight of care
--his hump appeared, with a slow half-revolution as he turned to
shut the door behind him. Taking off his hat, he walked up to Mr
Graham, who, busy with his astronomy, had not perceived his entrance,
touched him on the arm, and, standing on tip-toe, whispered softly
in his ear, as if it were a painful secret that must be respected,--
“I dinna ken whaur I cam frae. I want to come to the school.”
Mr Graham turned and shook hands with him, respectfully addressing
him as Mr Stewart, and got down for him the armchair which stood
behind his desk. But, with the politest bow, the laird declined
it, and mournfully repeating the words, “I dinna ken whaur I cam
frae,” took a place readily yielded him in the astronomical circle
surrounding the symbolic boys.
This was not by any means his first appearance there; for every
now and then he was seized with a desire to go to school, plainly
with the object of finding out where he came from. This always
fell in his quieter times, and for days together he would attend
regularly; in one instance he was not absent an hour for a whole
month. He spoke so little, however, that it was impossible to tell
how much he understood, although he seemed to enjoy all that went
on. He was so quiet, so sadly gentle, that he gave no trouble of
any sort, and after the first few minutes of a fresh appearance,
the attention of the scholars was rarely distracted by his presence.
The way in which the master treated him awoke like respect in his
pupils. Boys and girls were equally ready to make room for him on
their forms, and any one of the latter who had by some kind attention
awakened the watery glint of a smile on the melancholy features of
the troubled man, would boast of her success. Hence it came that
the neighbourhood of Portlossie was the one spot in the county
where a person of weak intellect or peculiar appearance might go
about free of insult.
The peculiar sentence the laird so often uttered was the only one
he invariably spoke with definite clearness. In every other attempt
at speech he was liable to be assailed by an often recurring
impediment, during the continuance of which he could compass
but a word here and there, often betaking himself in the agony of
suppressed utterance, to the most extravagant gestures, with which
he would sometimes succeed in so supplementing his words as to
render his meaning intelligible.
The two boys representing the earth and the moon, had returned
to their places in the class, and Mr Graham had gone on to give
a description of the moon, in which he had necessarily mentioned
the enormous height of her mountains as compared with those of
the earth. But in the course of asking some questions, he found a
need of further explanation, and therefore once more required the
services of the boy-sun and boy-moon. The moment the latter, however,
began to describe his circle around the former, Mr Stewart stepped
gravely up to him, and, laying hold of his hand, led him back to
his station in the class: then, turning first one shoulder, then
the other to the company, so as to attract attention to his hump,
uttered the single word _Mountain_, and took on himself the part of
the moon, proceeding to revolve in the circle which represented her
orbit. Several of the boys and girls smiled, but no one laughed,
for Mr Graham’s gravity maintained theirs. Without remark, he used
the mad laird for a moon to the end of his explanation.
Mr Stewart remained in the school all the morning, stood up with
every class Mr Graham taught, and in the intervals sat, with book
or slate before him, still as a Brahmin on the fancied verge of
his re-absorption, save that he murmured to himself now and then,--
“I dinna ken whaur I cam frae.”
When his pupils dispersed for dinner, Mr Graham invited him to go
to his house and share his homely meal, but with polished gesture
and broken speech, Mr Stewart declined, walked away towards the
town, and was seen no more that afternoon.