"It is wonderful," remarked the decent-looking, elderly man who had
contributed the story of Donald Gair--"it is wonderful how long a
recollection of that kind may live in the memory without one's knowing
it is there. There is no possibility of one taking an inventory of one's
recollections. They live unnoted and asleep, till roused by some
likeness of themselves, and then up they start, and answer to it, as
'face answereth to face in a glass.' There comes a story into my mind,
much like the last, that has lain there all unknown to me for the last
thirty years, nor have I heard any one mention it since; and yet, when I
was a boy, no story could be better known. You have all heard of the
dear years that followed the harvest of '40, and how fearfully they bore
on the poor. The scarcity, doubtless, came mainly from the hand of
Providence, and yet man had his share in it too. There were forestallers
of the market, who gathered their miserable gains by heightening the
already enormous price of victuals, thus adding starvation to hunger;
and among the best known and most execrated of these was one M'Kechan, a
residenter in the neighbouring parish. He was a hard-hearted,
foul-spoken man; and often what he _said_ exasperated the people as much
against him as what he _did_. When, on one occasion, he bought up all
the victuals on a market, there was a wringing of hands among the women,
and they cursed him to his face; but, when he added insult to injury,
and told them, in his pride, that he had not left them an ounce to foul
their teeth, they would that instant have taken his life, had not his
horse carried him through. He was a mean, too, as well as a hard-hearted
man, and used small measures and light weights. But he made money, and
deemed himself in a fair way of gaining a character on the strength of
that alone, when he was seized by a fever, and died after a few days'
illness. Solomon tells us that, when the wicked perish, there is
shouting--there was little grief in the sheriffdom when M'Kechan died;
but his relatives buried him decently, and, in the course of the next
fortnight, the meal fell two-pence the peck. You know the burying-ground
of St Bennet's--the chapel has long since been ruinous, and a row of
wasted elms, with white skeleton-looking tops, run around the enclosure,
and look over the fields that surround it on every side. It lies out of
the way of any thoroughfare, and months may sometimes pass, when burials
are unfrequent, in which no one goes near it. It was in St Bennet's that
M'Kechan was buried; and the people about the farmhouse that lies
nearest it were surprised, for the first month after his death, to see
the figure of a man, evening and morning, just a few minutes before the
sun had risen, and a few after it had set, walking round the yard, under
the elms, three times, and always disappearing when it had taken the
last turn, beside an old tomb near the gate. It was, of course, always
clear daylight when they saw the figure; and the month passed ere they
could bring themselves to suppose it was other than a thing of flesh and
blood like themselves. The strange regularity of its visits, however, at
length bred suspicion; and the farmer himself, a plain, decent man, of
more true courage than men of twice the pretence, determined, one
evening, on watching it. He took his place outside the wall, a little
before sunset, and no sooner had the red light died away on the elm
tops, than up started the figure from among the ruins on the opposite
side of the burying-ground, and came onward in its round--muttering
incessantly as it came, 'Oh, for mercy sake! for mercy sake!' it said,
'a handful of meal--I am starving! I am starving! a handful of meal!'
And then, changing its tone into one still more doleful, 'Oh,' it
exclaimed, 'alas, for the little lippie and the little peck! alas, for
the little lippie and the little peck!' As it passed, the farmer started
up from his seat; and there, sure enough, was M'Kechan, the corn factor,
in his ordinary dress, and, except that he was thinner and paler than
usual, like a man suffering from hunger, presenting nearly his ordinary
appearance. The figure passed, with a slow, gliding sort of motion; and,
turning the farther corner of the burying-ground, came onward in its
second round; but the farmer, though he had felt rather curious than
afraid as it went by, found his heart fail him as it approached the
second time, and, without waiting its coming up, set off homeward
through the corn. The apparition continued to take its rounds, evening
and morning, for about two months after, and then disappeared for ever.
Mealmongers had to forget the story, and to grow a little less afraid,
ere they could cheat with their accustomed coolness. Believe me, such
beliefs, whatever may be thought of them in the present day, have not
been without their use in the past."
As the old man concluded his story, one of the women rose to a table in
the little room, and replenished our glasses. We all drank in silence.
"It is within an hour of midnight," said one of the men, looking at his
watch; "we had better recruit the fire and draw in our chairs; the air
aye feels chill at a lykewake or a burial. At this time to-morrow we
will be lifting the corpse."
There was no reply. We all drew in our chairs nearer the fire, and for
several minutes there was a pause in the conversation, but there were
more stories to be told, and before the morning, many a spirit was
evoked from the grave, the vasty deep, and the Highland stream, whose
histories we may yet give in a future number.
THE PENNY-WEDDING.
If any of our readers have ever seen a Scottish penny-wedding they will
agree with us, we daresay, that it is a very merry affair, and that its
mirth and hilarity is not a whit the worse for its being, as it
generally is, very homely and unsophisticated. The penny-wedding is not
quite so splendid an affair as a ball at Almack's; but, from all we have
heard and read of these aristocratic exhibitions, we for our own parts
would have little hesitation about our preference, and what is more, we
are quite willing to accept the imputation of having a horrid bad taste.
It is very well known to those who know anything at all of
penny-weddings, that, when a farmer's servant is about to be
married--such an occurrence being the usual, or, at least, the most
frequent occasion of these festivities--all the neighbouring farmers,
with their servants, and sometimes their sons and daughters, are invited
to the ceremony; and to those who know this, it is also known that the
farmers so invited are in the habit of contributing each something to
the general stock of good things provided for the entertainment of the
wedding guests--some sending one thing and some another, till materials
are accumulated for a feast, which, both for quantity and quality, would
extort praise from Dr Kitchener himself, than whom no man ever knew
better what good living was. To all this a little money is added by the
parties present, to enable the young couple to _plenish_ their little
domicile.
Having given this brief sketch of what is called a penny-wedding, we
proceed to say that such a merry doing as this took place, as it had
done a thousand times before, in a certain parish (we dare not be more
particular) in the south of Scotland, about five-and-twenty years ago.
The parties--we name them, although it is of no consequence to our
story--were Andrew Jardine and Margaret Laird, both servants to a
respectable farmer in that part of the country of the name of Harrison,
and both very deserving and well-doing persons.
On the wedding-day being fixed, Andrew went himself to engage the
services of Blind Willie Hodge, the parish fiddler, as he might with all
propriety be called, for the happy occasion; and Willie very readily
agreed to attend gratuitously, adding, that he would bring his best
fiddle along with him, together with an ample supply of fiddle-strings
and rosin.
"An' a wee bit box o' elbow grease, Willie," said Andrew, slily; "for
ye'll hae gude aught hours o't, at the very least."
"I'll be sure to bring that too, Andrew," replied Willie, laughing; "but
it's no aught hours that'll ding me, I warrant. I hae played saxteen
without stoppin except to rosit."
"And to weet your whistle," slipped in Andrew.
"Pho, that wasna worth coontin. It was just a mouthfu' and at it again,"
said Willie. "I just tak, Andrew," he went on, "precisely the time o' a
demisemiquaver to a tumbler o' cauld liquor, such as porter or ale; and
twa minims or four crotchets to a tumbler o' het drink, such as toddy;
for the first, ye see, I can tak aff at jig time, but the other can only
get through wi' at the rate o' 'Roslin Castle,' or the 'Dead March in
Saul,' especially when it's brought to me scadding het, whilk sude never
be dune to a fiddler."
Now, as to this very nice chromatic measurement, by Willie, of the time
consumed in his potations, while in the exercise of his calling, we have
nothing to say. It may be perfectly correct for aught we know; but when
Willie said that he played at one sitting, and with only the stoppages
he mentioned, for sixteen hours, we rather think he was drawing fully a
longer bow than that he usually played with. At all events this we
know, that Willie was a very indifferent if not positively a very bad
fiddler; but he was a good-humoured creature, harmless and inoffensive,
and, moreover, the only one of his calling in the parish, so that he was
fully as much indebted to the necessities of his customers for the
employment he obtained, as to their love or charity.
The happy day which was to see the humble destinies of Andrew Jardine
and Margaret Laird united having arrived, Willie attired himself in his
best, popped his best fiddle--which was, after all, but a very sober
article, having no more tone than a salt-box--into a green bag, slipped
the instrument thus secured beneath the back of his coat, and proceeded
towards the scene of his impending labours. This was a large barn, which
had been carefully swept and levelled for the "light fantastic _toes_"
of some score of ploughmen and dairymaids, not formed exactly after the
Chinese fashion. At the further end of the barn stood a sort of
platform, erected on a couple of empty herring-barrels; and on this
again a chair was placed. This distinguished situation, we need hardly
say, was designed for Willie, who from that elevated position was to
pour down his heel-inspiring strains amongst the revellers below. When
Willie, however, came first upon the ground, the marriage party had not
yet arrived. They were still at the manse, which was hard by, but were
every minute expected. In these circumstances, and it being a fine
summer afternoon, Willie seated himself on a stone at the door, drew
forth his fiddle, and struck up with great vigour and animation, to the
infinite delight of some half-dozen of the wedding guests, who, not
having gone with the others to the manse, were now, like himself,
waiting their arrival. These immediately commenced footing it to
Willie's music on the green before the door, and thus presented a very
appropriate prelude to the coming festivities of the evening.
While Willie was thus engaged, an itinerant brother in trade, on the
look-out for employment, and who had heard of the wedding, suddenly
appeared, and stealing up quietly beside him, modestly undid the mouth
of his fiddle-bag, laid the neck of the instrument bare, and drew his
thumb carelessly across the strings, to intimate to him that a rival was
near his throne. On hearing the sound of the instrument, Willie stopped
short.
"I doubt, frien, ye hae come to the wrang market," he said, guessing at
once the object of the stranger. "An' ye hae been travellin too, I
daresay?" he continued, good-naturedly, and not at all offended with the
intruder, for whom and all of his kind he entertained a fellow feeling.
"Ay," replied the new Orpheus, who was a tall, good-looking man of about
eight-and-twenty years of age, but very poorly attired, "I hae been
travellin, as ye say, neebor, an' hae come twa or three miles out o' my
way to see if I could pick up a shilling or twa at this weddin."
"I am sorry now, man, for that," said Willie, sympathisingly. "I doot
ye'll be disappointed, for I hae been engaged for't this fortnight past.
But I'll tell ye what--if ye're onything guid o' the fiddle, ye may
remain, jist to relieve me now an' then, an' I'll mind ye when a's owre;
an' at ony rate ye'll aye pick up a mouthfu' o' guid meat and drink--an'
that ye ken's no to be fand at every dyke-side."
"A bargain be't," said the stranger, "an' much obliged to you, frien. I
maun just tak pat-luck and be thankfu'. But isna your weddin folks lang
o' comin?" he added.
"They'll be here belyve," replied Willie, and added, "Ye'll no be blin,
frien?"
"Ou no," said the stranger; "thank goodness I hae my sight; but I am
otherwise in such a bad state o' health, that I canna work, and am
obliged to tak the fiddle for a subsistence."
While this conversation was going on, the wedding folks were seen
dropping out of the manse in twos and threes, and making straight for
the scene of the evening's festivities, where they all very soon after
assembled. Ample justice having been done to all the good things that
were now set before the merry party, and Willie and his colleague having
had their share, and being thus put in excellent trim for entering on
their labours, the place was cleared of all encumbrances, and a fair and
open field left for the dancers. At this stage of the proceedings,
Willie was led by his colleague to his station, and helped up to the
elevated chair which had been provided for him, when the latter handed
him his instrument, while he himself took up his position, fiddle in
hand, on his principal's left, but standing on the ground, as there was
no room for him on the platform.
Everything being now ready, and the expectant couples ranged in their
respective places on the floor, Willie was called upon to begin--an
order which he instantly obeyed, by opening in great style.
On the conclusion of the first reel, in the musical department of which
the strange fiddler had not interfered, the latter whispered to his
coadjutor, that if he liked he would relieve him for the next.
"Weel," replied the latter, "if ye think ye can gae through wi't
onything decently, ye may try your hand."
"I'll no promise much," said the stranger, now for the first time
drawing his fiddle out of its bag; "but, for the credit o' the craft,
I'll do the best I can."
Having said this, Willie's colleague drew his bow across the strings of
his fiddle, with a preparatory flourish, when instantly every face in
the apartment was turned towards him with an expression of delight and
surprise. The tones of the fiddle were so immeasurably superior to those
of poor Willie's salt-box, that the dullest and most indiscriminating
ear amongst the revellers readily distinguished the amazing difference.
But infinitely greater still was their surprise and delight when the
stranger began to play. Nothing could exceed the energy, accuracy, and
beauty of his performances. He was, in short, evidently a perfect master
of the instrument, and this was instantly perceived and acknowledged by
all, including Willie himself, who declared, with great candour and
good-will, that he had never heard a better fiddler in his life.
The result of this discovery was, that the former was not allowed to
lift a bow during the remainder of the night, the whole burden of its
labours being deposited on the shoulders, or perhaps we should rather
say the finger-ends, of the stranger, who fiddled away with an
apparently invincible elbow.
For several hours the dance went on without interruption, and without
any apparent abatement whatever of vigour on the part of the performers;
but, at the end of this period some symptoms of exhaustion began to
manifest themselves, which were at length fully declared by a temporary
cessation of both the mirth and music.
It was at this interval in the revelries that the unknown fiddler--who
had been, by the unanimous voice of the party, installed in Willie's
elevated chair, while the latter was reduced to his place on the
floor--stretching himself over the platform, and tapping Willie on the
hat with his bow, to draw his attention, inquired of him, in a whisper,
if he knew who the lively little girl was that had been one of the
partners in the last reel that had been danced.
"Is she a bit red-cheeked, dark ee'd, and dark-haired lassie, about
nineteen or twenty?" inquired Willie, in his turn.
"The same," replied the fiddler.
"Ou, that's Jeanie Harrison," said Willie--"a kind-hearted, nice bit
lassie. No a better nor a bonnier in a' the parish. She's a dochter o'
Mr Harrison o' Todshaws, the young couple's maister, an' a very
respectable man. He's here himsel, too, amang the lave."
"Just so," replied his colleague. And he began to rosin his bow, and to
screw his pegs anew, to prepare for the second storm of merriment, which
he saw gathering, and threatening to burst upon him with increased fury.
Amongst the first on the floor was Jeanie Harrison.
"Is there naebody 'll tak me out for a reel?" exclaimed the lively girl;
and without waiting for an answer--"weel, then, I'll hae the fiddler."
And she ran towards the platform on which the unknown performer was
seated. But he did not wait her coming. He had heard her name her
choice, laid down his fiddle, and sprang to the floor with the agility
of a harlequin, exclaiming, "Thank ye, my bonny lassie--thank ye for the
honour. I'm your man at a moment's notice, either for feet or fiddle."
It is not quite certain that Jeanie was in perfect earnest when she made
choice of the musician for a partner, but it was now too late to
retract, for the joke had taken with the company, and, with one voice,
or rather shout, they insisted on her keeping faithful to her
engagement, and dancing a reel with the fiddler; and on this no one
insisted more stoutly than the fiddler himself. Finding that she could
do no better, the good-natured girl put the best face on the frolic she
could, and prepared to do her partner every justice in the dance. Willie
having now taken bow in hand, his colleague gave him the word of
command, and away the dancers went like meteors: and here again the
surprise of the party was greatly excited by the performances of our
friend the fiddler, who danced as well as he played. To say merely that
he far surpassed all in the room would not, perhaps, be saying much; for
there were none of them very great adepts in the art. But, in truth, he
danced with singular grace and lightness, and much did those who
witnessed it marvel at the display. Neither was his bow to his partner,
nor his manner of conducting her to her seat on the conclusion of the
reel, less remarkable. It was distinguished by an air of refined
gallantry certainly not often to be met with in those in his humble
station in life. He might have been a master of ceremonies; and where
the beggarly-looking fiddler had picked up these accomplishments every
one found it difficult to conjecture.
On the termination of the dance, the fiddler--as we shall call him, _par
excellence_, and to distinguish him from Willie--resumed his seat and
his fiddle, and began to drive away with even more than his former
spirit; but it was observed by more than one that his eye was now almost
constantly fixed, for the remainder of the evening, as, indeed, it had
been very frequently before, on his late partner, Jeanie Harrison. This
circumstance, however, did not prevent him giving every satisfaction to
those who danced to his music, nor did it in the least impair the spirit
of his performances; for he was evidently too much practised in the use
of the instrument, which he managed with such consummate skill, to be
put out, either by the contemplation of any chance object which might
present itself, or by the vagaries of his imagination.
Leaving our musician in the discharge of his duty, we shall step over to
where Jeanie Harrison is seated, to learn what she thinks of her
partner, and what the Misses Murray, the daughters of a neighbouring
farmer, between whom she sat, think of him, and of Jeanie having danced
with a fiddler.
Premising that the Misses Murray, not being by any means beauties
themselves, entertained a very reasonable and justifiable dislike and
jealousy of all their own sex to whom nature had been more bountiful in
this particular; and finding, moreover, that, from their excessively bad
tempers (this, however, of course, not admitted by the ladies
themselves), they could neither practise nor share in the amenities
which usually mark the intercourse of the sexes, they had set up for
connoisseurs in the articles of propriety and decorum, of which they
professed to be profound judges.
Premising this, then, we proceed to quote the conversation that passed
between the three ladies--that is, the Misses Murray and Miss Harrison;
the latter taking her seat between them after dancing with the fiddler.
"My certy," exclaimed the elder, with a very dignified toss of the head,
"ye warna nice, Jeanie, to dance wi' a fiddler. I wad hae been very ill
aff, indeed, for a partner before I wad hae taen up wi' such a
ragamuffin."
"An' to go an' ask him too!" said the younger, with an imitative toss.
"I wadna ask the best man in the land to dance wi' me, let alane a
fiddler! If they dinna choose to come o' their ain accord, they may
stay."
"Tuts, lassies, it was a' a piece o' fun," said the good-humoured girl.
"I'm sure everybody saw that but yersels. Besides, the man's weel
aneugh--na, a gude deal mair than that, if he was only a wee better
clad. There's no a better-lookin man in the room; and I wish, lassies,"
she added, "ye may get as guid dancers in your partners--that's a'."
"Umph! a bonny like taste ye hae, Jeanie, an' a very strange notion o'
propriety!" exclaimed the elder, with another toss of the head.
"To dance wi' a fiddler!" simpered out the younger, who, by the way, was
no chicken either, being but a trifle on the right side of thirty.
"Ay, to be sure--dance wi' a fiddler or a piper either. I'll dance wi'
baith o' them--an' what for no?" replied Jeanie. "There's neither sin
nor shame in't; and I'll dance wi' him again, if he'll only but ask me."
"An' faith he'll do that wi' a' the pleasure in the warld, my bonny
lassie," quoth the intrepid fiddler, leaping down once more from his
high place; for, there having been a cessation of both music and dancing
while the conversation above recorded was going on, he had heard every
word of it.--"Wi' a' the pleasure in the warld," he said, advancing
towards Jeanie Harrison, and making one of his best bows of invitation;
and again a shout of approbation from the company urged Jeanie to accept
it, which she readily did, at once to gratify her friends, and to
provoke the Misses Murray.
Having accordingly taken her place on the floor, and other couples
having been mustered for the set, Jeanie's partner again called on
Willie to strike up, again the dancers started, and again the fiddler
astonished and delighted the company with the grace and elegance of his
performances. On this occasion, however, the unknown musician's
predilection for his fair partner exhibited a more unequivocal
character; and he even ventured to inquire if he might call at her
father's, to amuse the family for an hour or so with his fiddle.
"Nae objection in the warld," replied Jeanie. "Come as aften as ye like;
and the aftener the better, if ye only bring yer fiddle wi' ye, for
we're a' fond o' music."
"A bargain be't," said the gallant fiddler; and, at the conclusion of
the reel, he again resumed his place on the platform and his fiddle.
"Time and the hour," says Shakspere, "will wear through the roughest
day;" and so they will, also, through the merriest night, as the joyous
party of whom we are speaking now soon found.
Exhaustion and lassitude, though long defied, finally triumphed; and
even the very candles seemed wearied of giving light; and, under the
influence of these mirth-destroying feelings, the party at length broke
up, and all departed, excepting the two fiddlers.