wilderness called London, and when I turned to go forward through
the rich autumn landscape, I felt really happy. After my bitter
experience of the endless rows of brick houses, and the everlasting
stone pavement, I enjoyed the long lines of leafy trees and hedges, and
the soft, fragrant wayside grass. The very thought that every step was
taking me nearer home was a delight in itself. That the distance was
four hundred miles did not seem to matter much. Our school's sports,
especially that of hounds and hare, had taught me to hold in, and not
expend all my resources at once. So I moved along at a steady, regular
pace, taking care not to strain my muscles. When my feet grew hot, I
refreshed them by walking into a brook. When faintness came on, I did
not seek the ale-house; but I bought a penny loaf, and sitting down by
a wayside well, found that plain bread and water were both palatable
and invigorating. For dessert, I sometimes had a young Swedish turnip,
which I found more sweet and juicy than any pine-apple I ever tasted.
At night, as the weather continued remarkably dry and warm, I preferred
the open air to the tramp's lodging-house; and under the newly-cut corn
sheaves, or in the recess of a haystack, I slept soundly till I was
wakened by the rising sun.
"With all my economy, however, my little stock of money melted fast
away; and I soon saw that if I wished to be saved from the degradation
of begging I must earn something. I therefore hit upon a plan which I
thought would be sure to get me some employment. This was to call upon
the clergymen through whose parishes I passed, to tell them frankly
the cause of my degradation, and to ask them in the name of Christian
charity to allow me to do some work for them, by which I could earn a
meal or a small sum of money. But, unfortunately, this patent plan of
mine failed. Without exception, the parish priests listened to my story
with an incredulous look, shook their heads, and shut their doors in my
face. At length I ventured to ask one why he disbelieved me?
"'My good man,' he said, 'I can't help it. I have been so often taken
in by people like you. The more plausible your story is, the more
likely it is to be false.'
"'You look upon poverty, then,' said I, 'as a crime?'
"'No,' he replied, 'not exactly, but as one of the marks of a criminal.
I may be wrong, but I can't help it.'
"I saw, too, that my fellow-tramps had the same opinion about me. One
evening, at a sudden turn of the road, I found myself face to face
with one of a most villainous type. There was no mistaking him. He was
a real London-made rough, spawned in the gutter, bred in the slums,
moulded in the jostle of the streets, with plunder in his look and
blasphemy on his tongue.
"Planting himself right before me, and devouring me with his rat-like
eyes, he croaked out, 'Well, my bloomin' cove! what lay are you on?'
"I told him that I was a gentleman who had been unfortunate in London,
and was now on my way back to my native country.
"'Oh! a gent are you?' he said, with a sneer; 'then, by ----, fork out
like a gent;' and he seized me by the coat collar.
"And now, for the first time, I found I had been taught at school
something that was useful. Throwing off his hand, I leapt back, and put
myself in a boxing attitude; and, as he made a furious assault upon me,
I parried his blows, and letting go my left straight from the shoulder,
landed on his jaw a crashing blow which sent him to the grass; and
there he lay half-stunned, and looking like a heap of filthy clothes.
I asked him if he would have any more, and getting nothing but a
terrible imprecation in reply, I left him, and went on my way.
"By this time I had passed Newark, and I was in a sorry plight. I was
without shoes and without a waistcoat, and my hat was crushed and
battered out of all shape. With bleeding feet and empty stomach, I was
limping along painfully, when I came to a farmer superintending his
reapers near the roadside. Touching my forehead, I asked him if he
could not give a starving man a job by which he could earn a bite of
bread.
"'No lad,' he said, 'but if ye had coomed when the taters were young I
could have given you a job. I might have employed you as a scarecrow.'
"Thereupon all the workers laughed, especially the women, who sent up
a loud skirl of delight. So I had to crawl on, foot-sore, and also
heart-sore at the cruelty of my fellow-creatures.
"But relief was at hand. I had not gone far, when, turning a corner of
the road, I came upon a strange sight: a fat little man, with a red
coat, and a red face, both discoloured by the weather, sitting at the
edge of a wood, eating his dinner, with his little dog in front of
him, and his properties--a Punch and Judy show, a big drum, and Pandean
pipes--indistinctly seen in the foliage behind him. He was eating bread
and cheese, which he cut with a clasp-knife, and Toby was eyeing him
greedily, ready to snap his occasional bit. Everything about the man
was so hearty, and so suggestive of sunshine and country roads, that he
seemed to warm up the landscape.
"As soon as he caught sight of me he called out, 'Hallo, mate! you seem
done up. Come and peck a bit. Sit down.' And he handed me a big hunk of
bread and another of cheese, looking on beamingly when I devoured it;
and when at length I could eat no more, he produced a flask.
"'Here is some of the right sort; take a good swig of it; it will oil
your digestion works. Man! it does me good to see you enjoy your grub.
I feel as if I were eating a second dinner. Now for your yarn.' Then he
lit his pipe and smoked while I gave an account of myself.
"'Ah,' he said, knocking out the ashes, 'my case is not altogether
unlike yours. I, too, got a good education, or what was intended to be
a good education. But I could never settle in any place. By nature
I was a rolling stone, or rather a rolling ball of fat; and Fortune,
mistaking me for a football, began to kick me about, and has been
playing with me ever since. But thanks to my fat, I always fall soft
and always rebound. Ha! ha!' and he laughed till his face puckered up
and showed his eyes like two small steel beads.
"While he was talking, I had taken up the Pandean pipes, and I now
played a tune on them.
"'Ah!' he said, 'can you work that?'
"'Yes,' I replied; 'when I was a boy in Edinburgh, there was nothing I
so much delighted in as a Punch and Judy performance. I used to loiter
for hours at the foot of the Mound, and see it repeated again and
again; and coming upon a set of Pandean pipes in my father's pawnshop,
I used to practise upon them.'
"'Why,' said Joe Greener (for, as I learnt afterwards, this was his
name), 'you're the very man I want. Aint it lucky? To tell you the
truth, I'm in a bit of a fix. My pal bolted two days ago with all the
swag. A good riddance at the price.' (And here Joe abandoned himself
to his peculiar snigger. He seemed to laugh all his trouble away, and
blow it off as if with a gust of merriment.)
"'I have written,' he continued, 'for an old partner in London, but he
can't come for some weeks. Meanwhile you'll do for a substitute. I'll
soon coach you up in the business. All that you have got to do is to
play the overture before the drama begins, and while it is going on to
collect the money and keep the imps of children from pulling aside the
baize and peeping in. The terms are six bob a week and your grub; and
I'll advance something at once to rig you out.'
"The bargain was struck; and that evening, in the inn yard of the
neighbouring village, we had several rehearsals, and I felt that I
would manage to get through my part fairly well.
"Behold me now, an Oxford man, and formerly the chum of lords and
swells, degraded into a Punch and Judy assistant. It was a bustling
life. We were out in the road in all weathers, performing at fairs, and
in the evenings in small towns and villages. In fact, wherever we saw
groups of people hanging about on the outlook for amusement, we set
up our stage. Once we were hired to amuse the boys at my old school,
Vere de Vere College. I cannot describe the feelings with which, in my
new character, I entered the well-known scenes. My uppermost feeling
was the fear lest I should be identified as a former scholar. But, to
my infinite relief, I saw that all the pupils and the servants were
strangers. The doctor, indeed, stared at me for a moment as if he
recognised me; but he turned away, muttering 'No, no, impossible!' He
could not believe that anyone who had had the unspeakable advantage
of being taught by him could possibly have fallen so low. His conceit
saved me.
"This vagrant life had its drudgery and its difficulties; but there
were certain things about it that I liked very much: the quiet country
roads, the resting on the green grass under hawthorn hedges, the
palatable dinners of bread and cheese and cider at rustic inns, and the
merry faces that clustered round us when that abandoned rascal Punch
began to play his pranks. But, at the end of a few weeks, Joe Greener's
former pal arrived from London, and my occupation was gone. So, bidding
a hearty farewell to my merry benefactor, I turned my face northwards
again, and partly by walking and partly by coaching, I have come thus
far.
"When I arrived at your gate to-night, and listened to the
well-remembered sound of the wind in the big plane tree, the past came
back upon me, and I felt as if I were a boy again, and as if my strange
experiences at Oxford and London were but the medley of a dream."
"Bless me," cried Miss Grizzie, "did you ever live here?" and she and
her sister were on their feet scrutinising the face of the stranger.
"Yes," he said quietly; "I once lived in this very house, and I can
give you a proof of it. Look at the back of the fireplace there, on
the left-hand side, and you will see the letters B.L. cut in a stone."
They all crowded round the fire to look; and, surely enough, they
detected the initials, badly formed and rather indistinct, but still
recognisable.
Then Miss Lizzie, turning round and looking intently at the stranger,
called out, "Are you Ben Levy? Eh! I thocht that there was something
about yer face that I should ken. Ah! I mind ye weel--a bit laddie,
comin' ower here in yer vakens, and introducin' yersel as oor coosin,
and steyin' for three or four weeks."
"But yer faither," said Miss Grizzie, "was a gentleman, I thocht. I
never heard o' him bein' a pawnbroker."
"No," said Ben, "he had retired by that time from the three balls, and
wished them to be forgotten."
Hillend, now putting his hand on the shoulder of the stranger, said,
"Oh man! is this you? Man, I'm fain to see ye. I mind ye weel--an
auld-farrant loon, dour at the readin', writin', and coontin', but
ready with yer haunds, and in the thick of everything--howin',
shearin', and threshin',--and wi' an awfu' wark wi' bease. An' have ye
really been through a' thae ups and doons: and what are ye gaun to dae
noo?"
"Well," said Ben, "that's just what I want to tell you. You see I have
had my chances--all the advantages which a man could have--education,
society, money. I could not use them, and they nearly did for me. They
have been a curse to me. I don't want them again. It is evident that
my proper sphere is a humble lot in the country. I shall be content if
anybody allows me to work in the fields, and gives me in return bed
and board and a suit of clothes once a year. A man who has frequently
supped on a turnip and slept under a hedge, will look upon a cog of
oatmeal porridge and a bunch of straw in the barn as real luxuries."
Hillend's eyes glistened. "Well," he thought, "here's something new at
a farmer's fireside, a man that has gaen up and doon the hale ladder o'
Fortune, and kens a' the changes o' Life. What a companion he will be
for the long winter nichts! A' the tales o' the Borders in one livin'
edition! A well that can always be pumped, and will never gang dry! I
think we must ask him to stey for a week or twa at least."
He gave a significant glance at his sisters, and they returned it. Then
he said--"Ye micht stey on here for a wee till ye can look aroond ye.
It happens that Jamie Doo, oor orra man, has just left. Ye can tak his
place, and pit oot your haund to ony job that's wanted; and ye'se get a
bed in the bothy, and your share o' the parritch and kail that's gaun
in the kitchen."
Weeks, months, and even years passed, and Ben Levy still remained at
the farm. The truth is that they could not do without him. He was the
factotum of Hillend, and also of the two sisters. During the day, if
any stress of work arose, he was the man to push it through; and in
the evening, if any visitors dropt in, he was the man to entertain them
with his startling experiences.
One remark he always made at the end of his story. "It's strange that a
few weeks experience of country labour in my boyhood should have been
more useful to me than all my school and university education. It has
enabled me to earn my bread. I believe it's because my heart was in it.
"'The heart's aye the part aye
That maks us richt or wrang.'"
THE ONE FATAL MISTAKE.
In my boyhood I was familiar with a thin emaciated man, that used to be
seen in the streets of Sandyriggs. Consumption had wasted his body, and
utterly quenched his spirit. Wan and dumb, he moved among the healthy
faces of the town folk like a ghost; and it was a painful sight to see
him crawl up the outside stair that led to his solitary room above the
butcher's shop. People called him "a blighted being" and "a living
wreck," and associated his name with a tragedy which had long been the
talk of the county. Yet, twenty years before, he began his career under
the most favourable auspices.
When Malcolm Blair entered the University of St Andrews, he might have
been considered a favourite of Fortune. He was the only son and the
pride of his father, a prosperous farmer. His body was healthy and
handsome, and his mind agile and enthusiastic. He had a keen relish,
not only for material blessings, but for knowledge of every kind. It
was as pleasant to him to study as to take a bracing morning walk.
Without any difficulty he drank in classics, mathematics, literature,
and science. In all the college competitions he easily took the first
place, and at the end of every session came out the first man of his
year.
At the same time, his learning did not make him moody and unsocial. He
put it (to use a homely phrase) "into a good skin." It was thoroughly
digested, became part of his being, promoted his general health,
and fed his buoyant spirits. When the time came for tossing aside
his books, mirth danced in his eyes and rioted in his laugh. His
motto seemed to be "Taste life's glad moments." At all the students'
recreations--the social gatherings on the Friday night, the Saturday
excursions into the country, the jolly junketings at Guardbridge and at
Leuchars--he was the life of the company. He could sing, recite, tell
stories, make a speech or "screamer," as it was called, and give the
most ludicrous imitation of the different professors.
"Blair," said one of his friends, "is irrepressible. How does he keep
up that vivid tone, both of body and mind? One would imagine that
his food was ambrosia and his drink was nectar; and the air which he
breathed was laughing-gas."
Altogether Blair was a youth full of promise, and apparently destined
for a popular and successful career.
But it was this highly-strung excitable temperament that brought him
into danger. The time came, towards the end of his Arts curriculum at
St Andrews, when "the young man's fancy lightly turned to thoughts
of love." If he had been privileged to mix in cultured family life,
his fancy might have settled on a suitable object. But in St Andrews,
where the distinctions of caste are strongly defined, the students are
unfortunately placed. They are regarded as being beneath the upper or
professional class; and they consider themselves as above the under
or trading class. They are, therefore, shut out from family life, and
are left to herd together in their lodgings. And thus it came to pass
that Malcolm Blair's fancy was unable to find a resting-place till it
settled on his landlady's daughter.
Grace Bourhill, daughter of Mrs Bourhill, lodging-house keeper in
College Street, had no special charms beyond a fresh complexion and a
pair of bright eyes. But she was ambitious, and tried all her little
fascinations on Mr Blair. When she brought in his meals, she was always
tidy as Hebe herself or neat-handed Phyllis. When he spoke to her, she
would blush and smile and look at him from the corner of her eyes.
When she ran against him in the lobby, she would show the prettiest
confusion, and after begging pardon, would trip away like a startled
fawn. As a matter of course, he soon saw that the girl was fond of him,
and could not help appreciating her good feeling and taste. He found
a pleasure in looking upon her and speaking to her, and when he was
singing Burns's songs, he would often call up her image to help him to
realise the poet's heroines. Yet all the while he never once thought of
her as a suitable partner for him. He considered the whole affair as an
innocent flirtation. Miserable delusion! He soon found out his mistake.
Blair's curriculum was drawing to a close. He was about to take
farewell of St Andrews' University. As he was preparing himself for
the Dissenting Ministry, his divinity studies were to be prosecuted
in Edinburgh. It was a time of great excitement among the students.
The winter, with its dull days and its hard work, had gone; and the
spring, with its bright hours and its prospect of country holidays,
had come. Song and laughter were in the air, and infected every one;
and the evenings were entirely given up to farewell merry-meetings.
One of the most important of these was the _Gaudeamus_ of the Literary
Society, held in the Cross Keys Hotel. The chair was taken by an
honorary member, a divinity student of jovial tendencies; and a galaxy
of youthful faces, all glowing with intelligence and good humour, was
grouped before him. What could be the result but an utter abandonment
to the influence of the time? The past, with all its trials, was
forgotten; the future, with its promised happiness, was taken for
granted; and the present, with its grateful pleasures, engrossed their
whole souls.
Prominent among the company was Malcolm Blair. He was, in a certain
sense, the hero of the evening. He had just completed his literary
course with the greatest distinction, having taken his degree of Master
of Arts with special commendation, and come out the first man of his
year in every branch; and he had, therefore, every reason for being
in the highest spirits. During dinner his jokes and anecdotes kept up
a constant roar. After dinner he sang songs and proposed toasts in
the most effective style. And then to crown all, he was called upon
by the voice of the whole company to give his imitation of Tammy, the
mathematical professor. Standing up, and putting on the well-known
grimaces, awkward gestures, and broad Scotch accent, he delivered a
speech on elocution, urging them all to cultivate a correct and refined
style of speaking, and to take an example from him, the speaker, who,
though born and brought up in Fife, had so thoroughly got rid of his
native peculiarities of phrase and accent, that he defied any stranger
to detect even his nationality. He sat down amid a prolonged shout of
applause; and on every side he was saluted with cries of "Health and
Imitation," and with pressing calls from dozens of his admirers to
drink with them.
Replying to these on the spur of the moment, he imbibed more than he
was aware of; and thus it happened, when the meeting broke up, that he
was in a state of the highest excitement.
This state of excitement was, indeed, very unfortunate. But another
unfortunate circumstance was fated to happen. On that particular night,
of all nights in the year, it chanced that his landlady, Mrs Bourhill,
was seized with a sort of fit; and when he reached his lodgings, he
witnessed a most distressing plight--the mother lying insensible on the
sofa, and the daughter wringing her hands and crying in despair. Alarm
and pity took possession of his heart; and after uttering a few words
of sympathy and comfort, he rushed away and brought back a doctor. The
doctor, a young man beginning practice, was solemn and taciturn. Asking
a few questions, and feeling the pulse of Mrs Bourhill, he looked very
grave, and tried one restorative after another until at length she
opened her eyes; and then, with the aid of the daughter, he led her to
her bedroom and shut the door.
Blair retired to his own room to wait the result. The minutes passed
slowly without a single sound to break the oppressive silence. At last
he heard the doctor go, and shut the outer door; but he waited in vain
for any other sound. Sick of suspense, and imagining all sorts of
evil, he crept quietly out of his room and entered the parlour; and
there he found Miss Bourhill seated on a chair, the picture of silent
misery.
"What has happened?" he asked, in a voice of alarm.
She answered by breaking down into a paroxysm of weeping.
"For God's sake, Miss Bourhill," he cried, "what has happened? Is your
mother dead?"
Then she rose, and with her hair streaming over her shoulders, and the
tears running down her cheeks, she clasped his hands, and said, "Oh,
Mr Blair! you have been so kind. But what am I to do? what _am_ I to
do? The doctor says that mother's condition is very serious, and that
another attack may be fatal, and I shall be left alone in the world
with nobody to care for me." And here she broke down again.
Now, what could this unsophisticated lad do, wrought up as he was by
various causes into a high state of excitement? What could he do but
take her hand, and pat her on the shoulder, and, in his anxiety to
soothe her, protest that he would take care of her? And other tender
promises he made which he was afterwards told about, but which he did
not remember.
Next morning he awoke with a curious, confused feeling which cannot
be described. Amid all the confusion, however, there still started up
the impression that he had said to Miss Bourhill many things which
he ought not to have said. He feared, in fact, that he had given her
the impression that he really loved her; and he resolved to lose no
time in disabusing her mind. He would represent it as an ordinary
flirtation, and would apologise most earnestly and humbly for trifling
with her feelings. He was not going to allow his future prospects to be
blighted, and he must set himself right at once, and at all hazards.
But, unfortunately, this resolute plan of his was utterly foiled by
unforeseen circumstances. No sooner had he stepped out of his bedroom
into the passage than Miss Bourhill, radiant with the consciousness of
one who was both loving and beloved, and looking really beautiful, had
thrown her arms around his neck and was embracing him; and her mother,
glowing with recovered health, came up and saluted him also.
"Mother," said the daughter, "this is my future husband."
And the mother, blessing them fervently, protested that he was the
very one whom she herself would have chosen, and congratulated him upon
his having secured such a priceless jewel.
"She canna," said she, "strum on the pianny, but she can darn stockins
and mak shirts. She'll no be able to jabber French, but she'll scrub
and cook and keep yer manse comfortable. And she's high-spirited too,
and she'll keep the members o' the congregation in their proper places.
She was jist born to be a minister's wife."
Now what could the fated Malcolm do, involved as he was in such a
witches' coil! He felt that if he didn't speak out and protest at once
he was lost; but the smiles, caresses, and blandishments that were
rained upon him, drugged and chloroformed his powers, and literally
shut his mouth; and he remained speechless and helpless. Two days
afterwards, Malcolm Blair left St Andrews an engaged man. The one fatal
mistake had been made.
During the six months of the summer vacation that Scotch students
enjoy, Malcolm Blair had been accustomed to continue his studies under
the most exhilarating circumstances. What a pleasant change it was from
the closeness and monotony of St Andrews' lecture-rooms to the airy
canopy and ever-changing glories of nature! And oh, the delight, at
daybreak, when the ploughman drove his team afield amid the thousand
melodies of morn; or at noon, when a golden haze brooded over the
pastures and cornfields, and the silence was broken only by the hum
of the bee; or in the evening, when the scent of flowers was in the
air and the coo of the cushat came from the firry woodland--oh, the
delight! to dwell upon the country scenes of the Mantuan Bard, or roll
out the winged words of Homer, or trill "the native wood-notes wild"
of the Swan of Avon. Standing on the same green earth, under the same
glorious sky, and amid the same perennial influences, he was able to
look at things from their point of view and in their spirit, and thus
virtually to realise--to make real to himself--their thoughts and
feelings regarding Nature.