OUR FOREBEARS.
A FEW notes had better here be given as to our "Forebears," the kind of
stock from which my father and mother sprang. My father's mother, Janet
Murray, claimed to be descended from a Galloway family that fought and
suffered for Christ's Crown and Covenant in Scotland's "killing time,"
and was herself a woman of a pronouncedly religious development. Her
husband, our grandfather, William Paton, had passed through a roving and
romantic career, before he settled down to be a douce deacon of the
weavers of Dumfries, like his father before him.
Forced by a press-gang to serve on board a British man-of-war, he was
taken prisoner by the French, and thereafter placed under Paul Jones,
the pirate of the seas, and bore to his dying day the mark of a slash
from the captain's sword across his shoulder for some slight disrespect
or offense. Determining with two others to escape, the three were hotly
pursued by Paul Jones's men. One, who could swim but little, was shot,
and had to be cut adrift by the other two, who in the darkness swam into
a cave and managed to evade for two nights and a day the rage of their
pursuers. My grandfather, being young and gentle and yellow-haired,
persuaded some kind heart to rig him out in female attire, and in this
costume escaped the attentions of the press-gang more than once; till,
after many hardships, he bargained with the captain of a coal sloop to
stow him away amongst his black diamonds; and thus, in due time, he
found his way home to Dumfries, where he tackled bravely and wisely the
duties of husband, father, and citizen for the remainder of his days.
The smack of the sea about the stories of his youth gave zest to the
talks round their quiet fireside, and that, again, was seasoned by the
warm Evangelical spirit of his Covenanting wife, her lips "dropping
grace."
On the other side, my mother, Janet Rogerson, had for parents a father
and mother of the Annandale stock. William Rogerson, her father, was one
of many brothers, all men of uncommon strength and great force of
character, quite worthy of the Border Rievers of an earlier day. Indeed,
it was in some such way that he secured his wife, though the dear old
lady in after days was chary about telling the story. She was a girl of
good position, the ward of two unscrupulous uncles who had charge of her
small estate, near Langholm; and while attending some boarding school
she fell devotedly in love with the tall, fair-haired, gallant young
blacksmith, William Rogerson. Her guardians, doubtless very properly,
objected to the "connection"; but our young Lochinvar, with his six or
seven stalwart brothers and other trusty "lads," all mounted, and with
some ready tools in case of need, went boldly and claimed his bride, and
she, willingly mounting at his side, was borne off in the light of open
day, joyously married, and took possession of her "but and ben," as the
mistress of the blacksmith's castle.
Janet Jardine bowed her neck to the self-chosen yoke, with the light of
a supreme affection in her heart, and showed in her gentler ways, her
love of books, her fine accomplishments with the needle, and her general
air of ladyhood, that her lot had once been cast in easier, but not
necessarily happier, ways. Her blacksmith lover proved not unworthy of
his lady bride, and in old age found for her a quiet and modest home,
the fruit of years of toil and hopeful thrift, their own little
property, in which they rested and waited a happy end. Amongst those who
at last wept by her grave stood, amidst many sons and daughters, her son
the Rev. James J. Rogerson, clergyman of the Church of England, who, for
many years thereafter, and till quite recently, was spared to occupy a
distinguished position at ancient Shrewsbury and has left behind him
there an honored and beloved name.
From such a home came our mother, Janet Jardine Rogerson, a
bright-hearted, high-spirited, patient-toiling, and altogether heroic
little woman; who, for about forty-three years, made and kept such a
wholesome, independent, God-fearing, and self-reliant life for her
family of five sons and six daughters, as constrains me, when I look
back on it now, in the light of all I have since seen and known of
others far differently situated, almost to worship her memory. She had
gone with her high spirits and breezy disposition to gladden as their
companion, the quiet abode of some grand or great-grand-uncle and aunt,
familiarly named in all that Dalswinton neighborhood, "Old Adam and
Eve." Their house was on the outskirts of the moor, and life for the
young girl there had not probably too much excitement. But one thing had
arrested her attention. She had noticed that a young stocking-maker from
the "Brig End," James Paton, the son of William and Janet there, was in
the habit of stealing alone into the quiet wood, book in hand, day after
day, at certain hours, as if for private study and meditation. It was a
very excusable curiosity that led the young bright heart of the girl to
watch him devoutly reading and hear him reverently reciting (though she
knew not then, it was Ralph Erskine's _Gospel Sonnets_, which he could
say by heart sixty years afterwards, as he lay on his bed of death); and
finally that curiosity awed itself into a holy respect, when she saw him
lay aside his broad Scotch bonnet, kneel down under the sheltering wings
of some tree, and pour out all his soul in daily prayers to God. As yet
they had never spoken. What spirit moved her, let lovers tell--was it
all devotion, or was it a touch of unconscious love kindling in her
towards the yellow-haired and thoughtful youth? Or was there a stroke of
mischief, of that teasing, which so often opens up the door to the most
serious step in all our lives? Anyhow, one day she slipped in quietly,
stole away his bonnet, and hung it on a branch near by, while his trance
of devotion made him oblivious of all around; then, from a safe retreat,
she watched and enjoyed his perplexity in seeking for and finding it! A
second day this was repeated; but his manifest disturbance of mind, and
his long pondering with the bonnet in hand, as if almost alarmed, seemed
to touch another chord in her heart--that chord of pity which is so
often the prelude of love, that finer pity that grieves to wound
anything nobler or tenderer than ourselves. Next day, when he came to
his accustomed place of prayer, a little card was pinned against the
tree just where he knelt, and on it these words: "She who stole away
your bonnet is ashamed of what she did; she has a great respect for you,
and asks you to pray for her, that she may become as good a Christian as
you."
Staring long at that writing, he forgot Ralph Erskine for one day!
Taking down the card, and wondering who the writer could be, he was
abusing himself for his stupidity in not suspecting that some one had
discovered his retreat and removed his bonnet, instead of wondering
whether angels had been there during his prayer,--when, suddenly raising
his eyes, he saw in front of old Adam's cottage, though a lane amongst
the trees, the passing of another kind of angel, swinging a milk-pail in
her hand and merrily singing some snatch of old Scottish song. He knew,
in that moment, by a Divine instinct, as infallible as any voice that
ever came to seer of old, that she was the angel visitor that had stolen
in upon his retreat--that bright-faced, clever-witted niece of old Adam
and Eve, to whom he had never yet spoken, but whose praises he had often
heard said and sung--"Wee Jen." I am afraid he did pray "for her," in
more senses than one, that afternoon; at any rate, more than a Scotch
bonnet was very effectually stolen; a good heart and true was there
virtually bestowed, and the trust was never regretted on either side,
and never betrayed.
Often and often, in the genial and beautiful hours of the autumntide of
their long life, have I heard my dear father tease "Jen" about her
maidenly intentions in the stealing of that bonnet; and often have heard
her quick mother-wit in the happy retort, that had his motives for
coming to that retreat been altogether and exclusively pious, he would
probably have found his way to the other side of the wood, but that men
who prowled about the Garden of Eden ran the risk of meeting some day
with a daughter of Eve!