The wound on Robert's foot festered, and had not yet healed when the
sickle was first put to the barley. He hobbled out, however, to the
reapers, for he could not bear to be left alone with his violin, so
dreadfully oppressive was the knowledge that he could not use it after
its nature. He began to think whether his incapacity was not a judgment
upon him for taking it away from the soutar, who could do so much more
with it, and to whom, consequently, it was so much more valuable. The
pain in his foot, likewise, had been very depressing; and but for the
kindness of his friends, especially of Miss Lammie, he would have been
altogether 'a weary wight forlorn.'
Shargar was happier than ever he had been in his life. His white
face hung on Miss Lammie's looks, and haunted her steps from spence
(store-room, as in Devonshire) to milk-house, and from milk-house to
chessel, surmounted by the glory of his red hair, which a farm-servant
declared he had once mistaken for a fun-buss (whin-bush) on fire. This
day she had gone to the field to see the first handful of barley cut,
and Shargar was there, of course.
It was a glorious day of blue and gold, with just wind enough to set the
barley-heads a-talking. But, whether from the heat of the sun, or the
pain of his foot operating on the general discouragement under which he
laboured, Robert turned faint all at once, and dragged himself away to a
cottage on the edge of the field.
It was the dwelling of a cottar, whose family had been settled upon the
farm of Bodyfauld from time immemorial. They were, indeed, like other
cottars, a kind of feudal dependents, occupying an acre or two of the
land, in return for which they performed certain stipulated labour,
called cottar-wark. The greater part of the family was employed in the
work of the farm, at the regular wages.
Alas for Scotland that such families are now to seek! Would that the
parliaments of our country held such a proportion of noble-minded men as
was once to be found in the clay huts on a hill-side, or grouped about a
central farm, huts whose wretched look would move the pity of many a
man as inferior to their occupants as a King Charles's lap-dog is to a
shepherd's colley. The utensils of their life were mean enough: the life
itself was often elixir vitae--a true family life, looking up to the
high, divine life. But well for the world that such life has been
scattered over it, east and west, the seed of fresh growth in new lands.
Out of offence to the individual, God brings good to the whole; for
he pets no nation, but trains it for the perfect globular life of all
nations--of his world--of his universe. As he makes families mingle, to
redeem each from its family selfishness, so will he make nations
mingle, and love and correct and reform and develop each other, till the
planet-world shall go singing through space one harmony to the God of
the whole earth. The excellence must vanish from one portion, that
it may be diffused through the whole. The seed ripens on one favoured
mound, and is scattered over the plain. We console ourselves with the
higher thought, that if Scotland is worse, the world is better. Yea,
even they by whom the offence came, and who have first to reap the woe
of that offence, because they did the will of God to satisfy their own
avarice in laying land to land and house to house, shall not reap their
punishment in having their own will, and standing therefore alone in the
earth when the good of their evil deeds returns upon it; but the tears
of men that ascended to heaven in the heat of their burning dwellings
shall descend in the dew of blessing even on the hearts of them that
kindled the fire.--'Something too much of this.'
Robert lifted the latch, and walked into the cottage. It was not quite
so strange to him as it would be to most of my readers; still, he had
not been in such a place before. A girl who was stooping by the small
peat fire on the hearth looked up, and seeing that he was lame, came
across the heights and hollows of the clay floor to meet him. Robert
spoke so faintly that she could not hear.
'What's yer wull?' she asked; then, changing her tone,--'Eh! ye're no
weel,' she said. 'Come in to the fire. Tak a haud o' me, and come yer
wa's butt.'
She was a pretty, indeed graceful girl of about eighteen, with the
elasticity rather than undulation of movement which distinguishes the
peasant from the city girl. She led him to the chimla-lug (the ear of
the chimney), carefully levelled a wooden chair to the inequalities of
the floor, and said,
'Sit ye doon. Will I fess a drappy o' milk?'
'Gie me a drink o' water, gin ye please,' said Robert.
She brought it. He drank, and felt better. A baby woke in a cradle on
the other side of the fire, and began to cry. The girl went and took him
up; and then Robert saw what she was like. Light-brown hair clustered
about a delicately-coloured face and hazel eyes. Later in the harvest
her cheeks would be ruddy--now they were peach-coloured. A white neck
rose above a pink print jacket, called a wrapper; and the rest of her
visible dress was a blue petticoat. She ended in pretty, brown bare
feet. Robert liked her, and began to talk. If his imagination had not
been already filled, he would have fallen in love with her, I dare
say, at once; for, except Miss St. John, he had never seen anything he
thought so beautiful. The baby cried now and then.
'What ails the bairnie?' he asked.
'Ow, it's jist cuttin' its teeth. Gin it greits muckle, I maun jist tak
it oot to my mither. She'll sune quaiet it. Are ye haudin' better?'
'Hoot, ay. I'm a' richt noo. Is yer mither shearin'?'
'Na. She's gatherin'. The shearin' 's some sair wark for her e'en noo. I
suld hae been shearin', but my mither wad fain hae a day o' the hairst.
She thocht it wud du her gude. But I s' warran' a day o' 't 'll sair
(satisfy) her, and I s' be at it the morn. She's been unco dowie
(ailing) a' the summer; and sae has the bairnie.'
'Ye maun hae had a sair time o' 't, than.'
'Ay, some. But I aye got some sleep. I jist tuik the towie (string) into
the bed wi' me, and whan the bairnie grat, I waukit, an' rockit it till
't fell asleep again. But whiles naething wad du but tak him till 's
mammie.'
All the time she was hushing and fondling the child, who went on
fretting when not actually crying.
'Is he yer brither, than?' asked Robert.
'Ay, what ither? I maun tak him, I see. But ye can sit there as lang
's ye like; and gin ye gang afore I come back, jist turn the key 'i the
door to lat onybody ken that there's naebody i' the hoose.'
Robert thanked her, and remained in the shadow by the chimney, which
was formed of two smoke-browned planks fastened up the wall, one on each
side, and an inverted wooden funnel above to conduct the smoke through
the roof. He sat for some time gloomily gazing at a spot of sunlight
which burned on the brown clay floor. All was still as death. And he
felt the white-washed walls even more desolate than if they had been
smoke-begrimed.
Looking about him, he found over his head something which he did not
understand. It was as big as the stump of a great tree. Apparently
it belonged to the structure of the cottage, but he could not, in the
imperfect light, and the dazzling of the sun-spot at which he had
been staring, make out what it was, or how it came to be up
there--unsupported as far as he could see. He rose to examine it,
lifted a bit of tarpaulin which hung before it, and found a rickety box,
suspended by a rope from a great nail in the wall. It had two shelves in
it full of books.
Now, although there were more books in Mr. Lammie's house than in his
grandmother's, the only one he had found that in the least enticed him
to read, was a translation of George Buchanan's History of Scotland.
This he had begun to read faithfully, believing every word of it, but
had at last broken down at the fiftieth king or so. Imagine, then, the
moon that arose on the boy when, having pulled a ragged and thumb-worn
book from among those of James Hewson the cottar, he, for the first
time, found himself in the midst of The Arabian Nights. I shrink from
all attempt to set forth in words the rainbow-coloured delight that
coruscated in his brain. When Jessie Hewson returned, she found him
seated where she had left him, so buried in his volume that he did not
lift his head when she entered.
'Ye hae gotten a buik,' she said.
'Ay have I,' answered Robert, decisively.
'It's a fine buik, that. Did ye ever see 't afore?'
'Na, never.'
'There's three wolums o' 't about, here and there,' said Jessie; and
with the child on one arm, she proceeded with the other hand to search
for them in the crap o' the wa', that is, on the top of the wall where
the rafters rest.
There she found two or three books, which, after examining them, she
placed on the dresser beside Robert.
'There's nane o' them there,' she said; 'but maybe ye wad like to luik
at that anes.'
Robert thanked her, but was too busy to feel the least curiosity about
any book in the world but the one he was reading. He read on, heart and
soul and mind absorbed in the marvels of the eastern skald; the stories
told in the streets of Cairo, amidst gorgeous costumes, and camels, and
white-veiled women, vibrating here in the heart of a Scotch boy, in the
darkest corner of a mud cottage, at the foot of a hill of cold-loving
pines, with a barefooted girl and a baby for his companions.
But the pleasure he had been having was of a sort rather to expedite
than to delay the subjective arrival of dinner-time. There was, however,
happily no occasion to go home in order to appease his hunger; he had
but to join the men and women in the barley-field: there was sure to be
enough, for Miss Lammie was at the head of the commissariat.
When he had had as much milk-porridge as he could eat, and a good slice
of swack (elastic) cheese, with a cap (wooden bowl) of ale, all of
which he consumed as if the good of them lay in the haste of their
appropriation, he hurried back to the cottage, and sat there reading The
Arabian Nights, till the sun went down in the orange-hued west, and
the gloamin' came, and with it the reapers, John and Elspet Hewson, and
their son George, to their supper and early bed.
John was a cheerful, rough, Roman-nosed, black-eyed man, who took snuff
largely, and was not careful to remove the traces of the habit. He had
a loud voice, and an original way of regarding things, which, with his
vivacity, made every remark sound like the proclamation of a discovery.
'Are ye there, Robert?' said he, as he entered. Robert rose, absorbed
and silent.
'He's been here a' day, readin' like a colliginer,' said Jessie.
'What are ye readin' sae eident (diligent), man?' asked John.
'A buik o' stories, here,' answered Robert, carelessly, shy of being
supposed so much engrossed with them as he really was.
I should never expect much of a young poet who was not rather ashamed of
the distinction which yet he chiefly coveted. There is a modesty in all
young delight. It is wild and shy, and would hide itself, like a boy's
or maiden's first love, from the gaze of the people. Something like this
was Robert's feeling over The Arabian Nights.
'Ay,' said John, taking snuff from a small bone spoon, 'it's a gran'
buik that. But my son Charley, him 'at 's deid an' gane hame, wad hae
tell't ye it was idle time readin' that, wi' sic a buik as that ither
lyin' at yer elbuck.'
He pointed to one of the books Jessie had taken from the crap o' the wa'
and laid down beside him on the well-scoured dresser. Robert took up the
volume and opened it. There was no title-page.
'The Tempest?' he said. 'What is 't? Poetry?'
'Ay is 't. It's Shackspear.'
'I hae heard o' him,' said Robert. 'What was he?'
'A player kin' o' a chiel', wi' an unco sicht o' brains,' answered John.
'He cudna hae had muckle time to gang skelpin' and sornin' aboot the
country like maist o' thae cattle, gin he vrote a' that, I'm thinkin'.'
'Whaur did he bide?'
'Awa' in Englan'--maistly aboot Lonnon, I'm thinkin'. That's the place
for a' by-ordinar fowk, they tell me.'
'Hoo lang is 't sin he deid?'
'I dinna ken. A hunner year or twa, I s' warran'. It's a lang time. But
I'm thinkin' fowk than was jist something like what they are noo. But I
ken unco little aboot him, for the prent 's some sma', and I'm some ill
for losin' my characters, and sae I dinna win that far benn wi' him.
Geordie there 'll tell ye mair aboot him.'
But George Hewson had not much to communicate, for he had but lately
landed in Shakspere's country, and had got but a little way inland yet.
Nor did Robert much care, for his head was full of The Arabian Nights.
This, however, was his first introduction to Shakspere.
Finding himself much at home, he stopped yet a while, shared in the
supper, and resumed his seat in the corner when the book was brought
out for worship. The iron lamp, with its wick of rush-pith, which hung
against the side of the chimney, was lighted, and John sat down to read.
But as his eyes and the print, too, had grown a little dim with years,
the lamp was not enough, and he asked for a 'fir-can'le.' A splint of
fir dug from the peat-bog was handed to him. He lighted it at the lamp,
and held it in his hand over the page. Its clear resinous flame enabled
him to read a short psalm. Then they sang a most wailful tune, and John
prayed. If I were to give the prayer as he uttered it, I might make my
reader laugh, therefore I abstain, assuring him only that, although full
of long words--amongst the rest, aspiration and ravishment--the prayer
of the cheerful, joke-loving cottar contained evidence of a degree of
religious development rare, I doubt, amongst bishops.
When Robert left the cottage, he found the sky partly clouded and the
air cold. The nearest way home was across the barley-stubble of the
day's reaping, which lay under a little hill covered with various
species of the pine. His own soul, after the restful day he had spent,
and under the reaction from the new excitement of the stories he had
been reading, was like a quiet, moonless night. The thought of his
mother came back upon him, and her written words, 'O Lord, my heart is
very sore'; and the thought of his father followed that, and he limped
slowly home, laden with mournfulness. As he reached the middle of the
field, the wind was suddenly there with a low sough from out of the
north-west. The heads of barley in the sheaves leaned away with a soft
rustling from before it; and Robert felt for the first time the sadness
of a harvest-field. Then the wind swept away to the pine-covered hill,
and raised a rushing and a wailing amongst its thin-clad branches, and
to the ear of Robert the trees were singing over again in their night
solitudes the air sung by the cottar's family. When he looked to the
north-west, whence the wind came, he saw nothing but a pale cleft in the
sky. The meaning, the music of the night awoke in his soul; he forgot
his lame foot, and the weight of Mr. Lammie's great boots, ran home and
up the stair to his own room, seized his violin with eager haste, nor
laid it down again till he could draw from it, at will, a sound like the
moaning of the wind over the stubble-field. Then he knew that he could
play the Flowers of the Forest. The Wind that Shakes the Barley cannot
have been named from the barley after it was cut, but while it stood in
the field: the Flowers of the Forest was of the gathered harvest.
He tried the air once over in the dark, and then carried his violin down
to the room where Mr. and Miss Lammie sat.
'I think I can play 't noo, Mr. Lammie,' he said abruptly.
'Play what, callant?' asked his host.
'The Flooers o' the Forest.'
'Play awa' than.'
And Robert played--not so well as he had hoped. I dare say it was
a humble enough performance, but he gave something at least of the
expression Mr. Lammie desired. For, the moment the tune was over, he
exclaimed,
'Weel dune, Robert man! ye'll be a fiddler some day yet!'
And Robert was well satisfied with the praise.
'I wish yer mother had been alive,' the farmer went on. 'She wad hae
been rael prood to hear ye play like that. Eh! she likit the fiddle
weel. And she culd play bonny upo' the piana hersel'. It was something
to hear the twa o' them playing thegither, him on the fiddle--that verra
fiddle o' 's father's 'at ye hae i' yer han'--and her on the piana.
Eh! but she was a bonnie wuman as ever I saw, an' that quaiet! It's my
belief she never thocht aboot her ain beowty frae week's en' to week's
en', and that's no sayin' little--is 't, Aggy?'
'I never preten't ony richt to think aboot sic,' returned Miss Lammie,
with a mild indignation.
'That's richt, lass. Od, ye're aye i' the richt--though I say 't 'at
sudna.'
Miss Lammie must indeed have been good-natured, to answer only with a
genuine laugh. Shargar looked explosive with anger. But Robert would
fain hear more of his mother.
'What was my mother like, Mr. Lammie?' he asked.
'Eh, my man! ye suld hae seen her upon a bonnie bay mere that yer father
gae her. Faith! she sat as straught as a rash, wi' jist a hing i' the
heid o' her, like the heid o' a halm o' wild aits.'
'My father wasna that ill till her than?' suggested Robert.
'Wha ever daured say sic a thing?' returned Mr. Lammie, but in a tone
so far from satisfactory to Robert, that he inquired no more in that
direction.
I need hardly say that from that night Robert was more than ever
diligent with his violin.