MEG PARTAN’S LAMP.
Malcolm went down the river-side, not over pleased with the marquis;
for, although unconscious of it as such, he had a strong feeling
of personal dignity.
As he threaded the tortuous ways of the Seaton towards his own
door, he met sounds of mingled abuse and apology. Such were not
infrequent in that quarter, for one of the women who lived there
was a termagant, and the door of her cottage was generally open. She
was known as Meg Partan. Her husband’s real name was of as little
consequence in life as it is in my history, for almost everybody
in the fishing villages of that coast was and is known by his
_to-name_, or nickname, a device for distinction rendered absolutely
necessary by the paucity of surnames occasioned by the persistent
intermarriage of the fisher-folk. _Partan_ is the Scotch for _crab_,
but the immediate recipient of the name was one of the gentlest
creatures in the place, and hence it had been surmised by some that,
the grey mare being the better horse, the man was thus designated
from the crabbedness of his wife; but the probability is he brought
the agnomen with him from school, where many such apparently
misfitting names are unaccountably generated.
In the present case, however, the apologies were not issuing as
usual from the mouth of Davy Partan, but from that of the blind
piper. Malcolm stood for a moment at the door to understand the
matter of contention, and prepare him to interfere judiciously.
“Gien ye suppose, piper, ’at ye’re peyed to drive fowk oot o’ their
beds at sic hoors as yon, it’s time the toon-cooncil was informed
o’ yer mistak,” said Meg Partan, with emphasis on the last syllable.
“Ta coot peoples up in ta town are not half so hart upon her as you,
Mistress Partan,” insinuated poor Duncan, who, knowing himself in
fault, was humble; “and it’s tere tat she’s paid,” he added, with
a bridling motion, “and not town here pelow.”
“Dinna ye glorifee yersel’ to suppose there’s a fisher, lat alane
a fisher’s wife, in a’ the haill Seaton ’at wad lippen (_trust_) till
an auld haiveril like you to hae them up i’ the mornin’! Haith! I
was oot o’ my bed hoors or I hard the skirlin’ o’ _your_ pipes. Troth
I ken weel hoo muckle ower ear’ ye was! But what fowk taks in han’,
fowk sud put oot o’ han’ in a proper mainner, and no misguggle ’t
a’thegither like yon. An’ for what they say i’ the toon, there’s
Mistress Catanach----”
“Mistress Catanach is a paad ’oman,” said Duncan.
“I wad advise _you_, piper, to haud a quaiet sough aboot _her_. _She’s_
no to be meddlet wi’, Mistress Catanach, I can tell ye. Gien ye
anger her, it’ll be the waur for ye. The neist time ye hae a lyin’
in, she’ll be raxin’ (_reaching_) ye a hairless pup, or, deed, maybe
a stan’ o’ bagpipes, as the produck.”
“Her nainsel will not pe requiring her sairvices, Mistress Partan;
she’ll pe leafing tat to you, if you’ll excuse me,” said Duncan.
“Deed, ye’re richt there! An auld speldin’ (_dried haddock_) like
you! Ha! ha! ha!”
Malcolm judged it time to interfere, and stepped into the cottage.
Duncan was seated in the darkest corner of the room, with an apron
over his knees, occupied with a tin lamp. He had taken out the wick
and laid its flat tube on the hearth, had emptied the oil into a
saucer, and was now rubbing the lamp vigorously: cleanliness rather
than brightness must have been what he sought to produce.
Malcolm’s instinct taught him to side so far with the dame concerning
Mrs Catanach, and thereby turn the torrent away from his grandfather.
“’Deed ye’re richt there, Mistress Findlay!” he said. “_She’s_ no to
be meddlet wi’. She’s no mowse (_safe_).”
Malcolm was a favourite with Meg, as with all the women of the
place; hence she did not even start in resentment at his sudden
appearance, but, turning to Duncan, exclaimed victoriously,--
“Hear till her ain oye! He’s a laad o’ sense!”
“Ay, hear to him!” rejoined the old man with pride. “My Malcolm
will always pe speaking tat which will pe worth ta hearing with
ta ears. Poth of you and me will be knowing ta Mistress Catanach
pretty well--eh, Malcolm, my son? We’ll not be trusting her fery
too much--will we, my son?”
“No a hair, daddy,” returned Malcolm.
“She’s a dooms clever wife, though; an’ ane ’at ye may lippen
till i’ the w’y o’ her ain callin’,” said Meg Partan, whose temper
had improved a little under the influence of the handsome youth’s
presence and cheery speech.
“She’ll not pe toubting it,” responded Duncan; “put, ach! ta voman
’ll be hafing a crim feesage and a fearsome eye!”
Like all the blind, he spoke as if he saw perfectly.
“Weel, I hae hard fowk say ’at ye bude (_behoved_) to hae the second
sicht,” said Mrs Findlay, laughing rudely; “but wow! it stan’s ye
in sma’ service gien that be a’ it comes till. She’s a guid-natur’d,
sonsy-luikin’ wife as ye wad see; an’ for her een, they’re jist
sic likes mine ain.--Haena ye near dune wi’ that lamp yet?”
“The week of it’ll pe shust a lettle out of orter,” answered the
old man. “Ta pairns has been’ pulling it up with a peen from ta
top, and not putting it in at ta hole for ta purpose. And she’ll pe
thinking you’ll be cleaning off ta purnt part with a peen yourself,
ma’am, and not with ta pair of scissors she tolt you of, Mistress
Partan.”
“Gae ’wa’ wi’ yer nonsense!” cried Meg. “Daur ye say I dinna ken
hoo to trim an uilyie lamp wi’ the best blin’ piper that ever cam
frae the bare-leggit Heelans?”
“A choke’s a choke, ma’am,” said Duncan, rising with dignity; “put
for a laty to make a choke of a man’s pare leks is not ta propriety!”
“Oot o’ my hoose wi’ ye!” screamed the she-Partan. “Wad ye threep
(_insist_) upo’ me onything I said was less nor proaper. ’At _I_ sud
say what wadna stan’ the licht as weels the bare houghs o’ ony
heelan’ rascal ’at ever lap a lawlan’ dyke!”
“Hoot toot, Mistress Findlay,” interposed Malcolm, as his grandfather
strode from the door; “ye maunna forget ’at he’s auld an’ blin’;
an’ a’ heelan’ fowk’s some kittle (_touchy_) aboot their legs.”
“Deil shochle them!” exclaimed the Partaness; “what care I for ’s
legs!”
Duncan had brought the germ of this ministry of light from his
native Highlands, where he had practised it in his own house, no
one but himself being permitted to clean, or fill, or, indeed, trim
the lamp. How first this came about, I do not believe the old man
himself knew. But he must have had some feeling of a call to the
work; for he had not been a month in Portlossie, before he had
installed himself in several families as the genius of their lamps,
and he gradually extended the relation until it comprehended almost
all the houses in the village.
It was strange and touching to see the sightless man thus busy about
light for others. A marvellous symbol of faith he was--not only
believing in sight, but in the mysterious, and to him altogether
unintelligible means by which others saw! In thus lending his aid
to a faculty in which he had no share, he himself followed the trail
of the garments of Light, stooping ever and anon to lift and bear
her skirts. He haunted the steps of the unknown Power, and flitted
about the walls of her temple as we mortals haunt the borders of
the immortal land, knowing nothing of what lies behind the unseen
veil, yet believing in an unrevealed grandeur. Or shall we say he
stood like the forsaken merman, who, having no soul to be saved,
yet lingered and listened outside the prayer-echoing church? Only
old Duncan had got farther: though he saw not a glimmer of the
glory, he yet asserted his part and lot in it, by the aiding of his
fellows to that of which he lacked the very conception himself. He
was a doorkeeper in the house, yea, by faith the blind man became
even a priest in the temple of Light.
Even when his grandchild was the merest baby, he would never allow
the gloaming to deepen into night without kindling for his behoof
the brightest and cleanest of train-oil-lamps. The women who at
first looked in to offer their services, would marvel at the trio
of blind man, babe, and burning lamp, and some would expostulate
with him on the needless waste. But neither would he listen to
their words, nor accept their offered assistance in dressing or
undressing the child. The sole manner in which he would consent to
avail himself of their willingness to help him, was to leave the
baby in charge of this or that neighbour while he went his rounds
with the bagpipes: when he went lamp-cleaning he always took him
along with him.
By this change of guardians Malcolm was a great gainer, for thus
he came to be surreptitiously nursed by a baker’s dozen of mothers,
who had a fund of not very wicked amusement in the lamentations of
the old man over his baby’s refusal of nourishment, and his fears
that he was pining away. But while they honestly declared that
a healthier child had never been seen in Portlossie, they were
compelled to conceal the too satisfactory reasons of the child’s
fastidiousness; for they were persuaded that the truth would only
make Duncan terribly jealous, and set him on contriving how at once
to play his pipes and carry his baby.
He had certain days for visiting certain houses, and cleaning the
lamps in them. The housewives had at first granted him as a privilege
the indulgence of his whim, and as such alone had Duncan regarded
it; but by and by, when they found their lamps burn so much better
from being properly attended to, they began to make him some small
return; and at length it became the custom with every housewife
who accepted his services, to pay him a halfpenny a week during
the winter months for cleaning her lamp. He never asked for it;
if payment was omitted, never even hinted at it; received what was
given him thankfully; and was regarded with kindness, and, indeed,
respect, by all. Even Mrs Partan, as he alone called her, was his
true friend: no intensity of friendship could have kept her from
scolding. I believe if we could thoroughly dissect the natures
of scolding women, we should find them in general not at all so
unfriendly as they are unpleasant.
A small trade in oil arose from his connection with the lamps, and
was added to the list of his general dealings. The fisher-folk made
their own oil, but sometimes it would run short, and then recourse
was had to Duncan’s little store, prepared by himself of the best;
chiefly, now, from the livers of fish caught by his grandson. With
so many sources of income, no one wondered at his getting on. Indeed
no one would have been surprised to hear, long before Malcolm had
begun to earn anything, that the old man had already laid by a
trifle.