orthodoxy. In the days of the Covenant its inhabitants had suffered for
the good cause; and at the Battle of Tippermuir its most prominent men
had sealed their testimony with their blood. It had also been blessed
with a long succession of faithful ministers, both Established and
Seceding, men who had not only held the form of sound doctrine, but
also of sound words. The minister of the parish, at this time, was the
Rev. Jeremiah MacGuffog, a preacher famous all over the land for his
persistent and deadly attacks upon organs, images, printed prayers,
human hymns, private interpretations of Scripture, intemperance, and
all the other backslidings of the day. The result was, that while
heresy was breaking out in various parts of the country, it never was
known in Sandyriggs. The theological atmosphere was evidently too keen
and bracing for such a hothouse plant.
Imagine, then, the sensation when it was reported that, at last, heresy
had appeared among the rising generation. The inhabitants were struck
dumb at first; but gradually recovering themselves, they began to talk
about it. It was discussed by the men at the church door on Sunday, and
by the women over their _four hours_ tea. What could be the cause of
it, was a question frequently asked? One suggested bad education; while
another asserted that it was too much education, and boldly wished for
the return of the good old time when the young bolted their knowledge
as they bolted their monthly dose of castor oil, and never thought of
complaining that it disagreed with them.
The _fama clamosa_ became so great that it could no longer be ignored
in his pulpit messages by that faithful minister, the Rev. Mr
MacGuffog. With bated breath he told his hearers that this was only one
instance among many of the fact that the spirit of evil had rallied
his powers and was making a desperate attempt to ruin mankind. "Yet,"
he added, "this incident which has taken place in our midst is also
fraught with comfort; because it is the fulfilment of the prophecy
that children will rise up against their parents; and, taken with the
wars and rumours of wars that prevail in the world at present, it is a
sign that the glorious time is at hand when Satan shall be bound for a
thousand years."
Who was this arch heretic, this chosen emissary of Satan, at whom the
parish turned pale? Little Willie Torrance, aged seven, the son of
George Torrance, a small farmer. What were the influences under which
this heresy was developed, it is now our task to describe.
Willie was what his mother called "a fell laddie," and his father "a
fair heartbreak." Do what they liked, they could never make him behave
like other boys. His dull red hair was always in disorder; his face
seemed a favourite resting-place for dust and smut; his hands were
soiled with the stroking of rabbits and pigeons; and his corduroys were
torn and worn with the climbing of trees. A book was a thing which he
never of his own accord touched. When he should have been learning his
lessons, he was outside watching the ducklings and the chicks; and on
Sabbath evenings, when all the members of the family were questioned
on the Shorter Catechism, he mixed up the answers in the most profane
and ludicrous manner. Every effort was tried to reclaim him. His
brother and sister, who were much older than he, were most faithful
in holding up before him all his sins against cleanliness and order;
his father at intervals conscientiously applied Solomon's educative
instrument, the rod; and his mother, though longing to be kind and
sympathetic, frowned upon many of his ways. But all these measures
seemed to produce no effect. He, indeed, endured all their treatment
without a murmur or protest, and really felt at times that he was a bad
lot and would come to a bad end; but his patience was unhesitatingly
pronounced to be "dourness," and was added on to his list of crimes.
But in spite of all this, he could not have been a bad boy, for he
had some devoted friends. The moment he appeared in the farmyard, his
presence was hailed by both "the fowl and the brute." In the sound of
his voice and the touch of his hand there was that miraculous power,
sympathy, which at once won their hearts. He understood them and they
understood him. Sweep, the cat, rubbed and purred against his leg;
Rover, the dog, jumped up to kiss his face; Blaze, the bob-tailed
horse, turned round its head in its stall to neigh to him; the brown
calf put its nose over the fence to be scratched; and the pigeons
settled on him like a small cloud to eat the corn from his hand.
But Willie's greatest blessing was his staunch bosom friend, Bob
Fortune. A friend is dear at any time, but he is especially dear in our
childhood, when the heart is fresh, the conscience clean, and the world
full of untasted pleasures. Not only is he another self, doubling our
delights and lessening our troubles, but he is what Shakespeare calls
"an earth-treading star," shedding a new light on everything. Answering
exactly to this description was Bob Fortune, nine years of age, and a
neighbour farmer's son, who called in, every morning, for Willie and
accompanied him to school. He was a healthy, hearty, intelligent boy.
It seemed as if his soul were made of sunlight, which warmed every limb
and shone through every feature. He had a smile and a soft word for
every living creature; and it was only when he witnessed cruelty that
he was ever out of temper. Overflowing, too, with animal spirits and
all kinds of boyish accomplishments, he was ever ready to run, leap,
sing, whistle, and imitate all sorts of sounds. He was also clever with
his hands and with his tongue, and, therefore, well fitted to be not
only a friend but a protector to Willie.
Your ordinary boy is apt to be cruel. He is as Dickens remarks, "an
enemy to all creation." He stones cats, beats the dumb driven cattle,
robs birds' nests, and in general gets "his sport," as he calls it, at
the expense of the lower animals. Like his full-grown fellow-sportsmen,
when he wants to be happy, he says, "Let us go and kill something."
This habit is not the result, as some suppose, of the cruelty inherent
in human nature, but rather arises from sheer thoughtlessness. It never
occurs to him that the lower animals feel the same pain as we do; and,
strange as it may seem, in this age of education, sympathy towards our
fellow-creatures is not taught at school.
From this savage habit our two lads had been saved by a painful
accident. One day a pretty, bright, playful young spaniel, named
Spring, which they had just been fondling, darted before a carriage,
and was run over and killed. Willie, especially, was dreadfully
shocked, and could not get rid of the sight of the poor animal
writhing in the death throes on the hard road, looking up pitifully
into his face as if struggling to tell what it was suffering, and
venting all its agony in one long, pitiful whine. Next day he stated
to Bob that it was wrong to torment animals, "for," he said, "they
suffer jist like hiz." They both resolved that they would not be cruel
to any creature, and that they would no longer rob nests. They might
take one egg, but that would not matter, as the bird could not count
and would never miss it. Then they wondered where Spring was now; and
Bob, whose imagination was always active, declared that he was sure to
be in heaven. Good dogs, he said, must go to heaven; for their masters,
when they went there, could not be happy without them. To Willie this
reasoning was conclusive, for he could not fancy any perfect state of
happiness where there were no four-footed favourites.
Our story begins on a bright summer morning, when the two boys set
out together for school. Delightful as their walks always were,
this particular walk was to be more delightful than usual. They had
scarcely left the farm buildings and were passing a whinny knowe,
when out there came running in a great state of flutter and anger,
as if to attack them, a hen partridge. Knowing by this that her brood
was near, they searched among the furze, and found instead of young
partridges, five barn-door chickens. There they were--yellow, black,
and white--staggering on their wire-like legs, and wondering very
much at this strange world into which they had evidently just newly
come. On searching still further, they came upon a nest with the
empty shells. It was evident that the pair of partridges, having been
robbed of their own eggs, had come upon this neglected nest, had taken
possession of it, had hatched the brood and were now trying, like good
foster-parents, to bring up their adopted family.
The next object before which the boys stood was a well-grown larch at
the foot of the avenue. On it was their favourite nest, a chaffinch's,
a perfect specimen of bird-craft. They had been able to examine and
admire it by climbing a neighbouring tree and looking into it. It was
snugly and securely placed in a fork of the larch, was cosy inside with
hair, wool, and feathers, and outside was covered skilfully all over
with lichen so as to look like a bit of the tree. They had also taken
an interest in the two birds, and by feeding them every day with seed
had made them quite tame. On this morning, the boys saw that something
unusual had happened; for the hen-bird was flitting excitedly between
the ground and the nest, and the cock was singing his favourite song
with more than his usual briskness; and on climbing the neighbouring
tree, they saw that the nest was full of gaping little bills. No wonder
that the mother was busy and the father proud!
But the most exciting event was seen when they were passing along the
pathway that skirts the back of the Gibbet Wood. Out in the air above
the field, a beak-and-claw fight was going on between two birds that
were discovered to be a wood-pigeon and a sparrow-hawk. The pigeon was
having the worst of it, and its feathers were falling fast, when some
crows, happening to pass, darted upon the common foe, the hawk, and
forced it to let go its hold. The pigeon alighted on a wall to recover
itself and then disappeared, and the hawk retreated, pursued and
harassed by its black enemies.
Then without further adventures they sauntered along by the loch side
under the blue unclouded weather. Bright and sympathetic, they formed
a part of the general joy that was abroad on the earth. They carolled
with the lark, whistled with the blackbird, and sported with the
butterfly among the flowers. And in the intervals Bob, full of bright
fancies, told what he was to do when he was a man: how he was going to
be a farmer, and have a garden full of the bonniest flowers, and keep
all kinds of horses, dogs, rabbits, and birds.
But when the boys reached the village and looked down the Overgate
where the school was situated, a sudden change came over their mood.
There was a dreadful silence which struck terror into them. The school
"was in" and they would be punished for being late. With fluttering
hearts they mounted the outside stair, went through the "pend" that led
to the school building, opened the door, stood before the indignant
teacher and the expectant and by no means sympathetic scholars, took
their punishment bravely, and sat down with smarting hands to their
work.
This humble institution was about the last specimen of its class.
It was an instance of the comparative ease with which, not so long
ago, schools could be set up, and schoolmasters could be made. The
schoolmaster, Mr Sloan, had been a house-carpenter. When old age
began to steal upon him, and he found manual labour too much for his
strength, he was advised by his fellow-elders in the small sect to
which he belonged to start a school. "You've a gude haund o' write,"
they said, "and ye're no a bad coonter; and the members o' oor body
will send their bairns to ye." He took their advice, and carried it
out with the greatest ease. First of all, there was no difficulty
about getting a schoolroom. Choosing his own workshop, he cleared out
the benches and the shavings, scrubbed the earthen floor, swept down
the bare walls, put in a few plain desks and forms which he had made
with his own hand; and the thing was done. According to his idea, no
more furnishings, such as maps, globes, or pictures, were required.
Then there was just as little difficulty in converting himself into a
schoolmaster. He laid aside his working-man's clothes, wore his Sunday
best every day, bought a bit of old leather and fashioned it into
_tawse_; and lo! the transformation was complete. The house-carpenter
in one day had been changed into a teacher of youth.
Equally simple and easy was his method of education. All he required
his pupils to do, besides their writing and arithmetic, was to commit
to memory the Shorter Catechism, Proofs, and Psalms; and he rested
satisfied that these good words, when swallowed, like a blessed
medicine would purify the heart, and enlighten the head. And all that
he, the teacher, needed to do was to direct and stimulate them by means
of the tawse; for did not the wise man say that the scourge was the
great instrument to be used in the education of the young! "He that
spareth the rod hateth the child." His scholars were placed on the
plain, beaten highway, and his whole duty was to drive them forward. He
was an educational _drover_. He was never known to have given a single
explanation of any kind on any subject whatever.
On this particular day, it chanced that the work of the school bore
very hard on poor Willie Torrance. The first lesson he was called upon
to say was a question in the Shorter Catechism. "Wherein," asked the
teacher, in slow and solemn tones, "consists the sinfulness of that
estate whereinto man fell?" "The sinfulness," answered Willie, in a
lugubrious, singsong voice, "of that estate whereinto man fell"--and
then he came to a dead stop. "Go on, sir!" said the teacher, sternly.
Willie could only run over again, "The sinfulness," etc., in the
desperate hope that he would thus gain an impetus which would carry him
through the remainder of the answer; but it was all in vain. Leather
was applied smartly to the palm of his hand; but this, while it gave
a keener realisation of the _feeling_ of the sinfulness, did not
contribute at all to its _theological conception_. He was sent to his
seat in disgrace, and sentenced to be kept in during the dinner-hour to
learn his neglected task.
The reading lesson came next, and every boy and girl was called
upon in turn to read a verse. The chapter was in the Old Testament,
and consisted chiefly of a long list of jaw-twisting Hebrew names.
Easy-going teachers used to skip such a chapter,--one of them, an
irreverent Gallio, alleging as a reason, that it was "a mere hatteril
o' nick-names." But Mr Sloan, a strictly orthodox man, held that every
word and letter, nay, every jot and tittle, were "profitable for
instruction in righteousness," and would not tolerate this playing
fast and loose with the inspired record. As it was, these Jewish names
stuck in Willie's throat. In the supple jaws of old Orientals, without
doubt, they were as a sweet morsel to be rolled under the tongue; but,
in the narrow and stiff jaws of a Scotch boy, they were hard nuts which
could neither be cracked nor swallowed. A smart box on the ear was
suddenly administered, but it did not contribute to the clearing of the
head, or the loosening of the vocal organs. There was no help for the
lad. He was left in the midst of the verse, like a lamb entangled in a
thicket of brambles, and the class proceeded with the remainder of the
task.
The writing lesson followed. Willie, grasping the pen tightly between
the forefinger and thumb, dipped it in the ink; but alas! the ink
bottle was too full, and, on bringing out the pen, he let a big blot
fall upon the paper. He licked the ink up with his tongue; but a very
ugly mark was left upon the copy. And when he tried to make a stroke
he only made another blot. The master gave him a smart rap on the
knuckles with the ruler; but this only shook his hand, and flustered
him. He could not keep his fingers free from the black liquid; and, in
his desperation, he wiped them sometimes on his corduroys, sometimes on
his hair, and sometimes on his face, until he looked as if he had been
exposed to a shower of ink.
The dinner-hour now intervened, and he was locked up in the schoolroom
all alone to get up the Catechism lesson which he had been unable to
repeat. By dint of sheer hammering, he managed to fix the words, not
the meaning, in his memory. Yet all the while he was looking out on a
green hill opposite, where a boy of his acquaintance was herding a cow.
Oh! how he envied that boy! How delightful it would be if he could get
free for ever from school, and pass the long summer day in the open
air, rolling on the grass among his favourite animals!
After the dinner-hour came the most difficult task of all. A column of
figures on the slate was put before him, and he was told to add them
up. He did not know how to add; he did not know even the meaning of
the word, and no explanation was vouchsafed to him. He sat wondering
how it should be done, and feeling that his brain was becoming a mass
of confusion. Casting a stealthy glance upon his neighbour's slate, he
found that his neighbour was putting down quite easily under the column
a row of figures. He concluded that the whole thing was a puzzle, and
was only to be found out by experiment. Accordingly, he tried first one
set of figures and then another, but every time he was wrong. At last
the master, losing patience, was driven to the use of sarcasm. Seizing
the boy's ear, twisting him round, and pointing to a stucco bust which
was over the door, and which, indeed, was the sole ornament in the
school, he said, in withering tones, "There's your brother." Then,
tapping the little confused skull, he added, "You've a head, and so
has a pin." The whole school laughed at these sarcasms. They were well
known. They were the master's only jokes, and, therefore, did duty very
often.
Willie had now run the gantlet of all the lessons and all the
punishment. The road to knowledge had not been to him a green and
flowery lane, along which he was led with ease and delight. It had
rather been a thorny brake, through which he had been dragged by main
force, and from which he issued hot, dishevelled, and bleeding. It
never occurred to him to ask, "What is the use of all this?" He had a
vague impression that this education, like measles and whooping cough,
was one of those serious dispensations of Providence which all must go
through, and which must be borne with patience.
But now came a relief. Mr Sloan, soothed by the good dinner which he
had just eaten, sank into his usual afternoon nap; and the scholars
immediately turned from their books and slates to subdued fun and
talking. Willie, greatly relieved, stood up and began to tell his
neighbour, Button Bowie, as they called him, all the strange sights
which he and Bob Fortune had seen that morning: the partridge with the
brood of chickens, the chaffinch's nest, and the fight between the
wood-pigeon and the sparrow-hawk.
But this interval of relief was not to last long. In every school,
just as in every company of human beings, there is always to be found
a bully; and this bully requires two persons near him,--a victim to be
tormented by him, and a toady to laugh at his cleverness. Christopher
Bain, nine years of age, was the bully; poor, harmless Willie was the
victim; and Button Bowie, whose father was foreman to Bain's father,
was the toady. Bain founded his superiority on the fact that his father
was the largest farmer in the neighbourhood, and kept a gig. He was
conceited, brazen-faced, and loud. Coming forward, he cried, "Weel,
what's that little numskull, that dunce o' the hale schule, been sayin'
noo? He's gettin' stupider than ever."
Button, eager to curry favour with the son of his father's employer,
told him.
"Ye lee'in beggar," said Bain to Willie, as if in righteous
indignation, "hoo daur ye tell sic stories? Why, ye're sae stupid that
ye wadna ken a pigeon frae a hawk. Ye wadna ken a B from a bull's
fit;" and, so saying, he gave the little fellow a push which sent him
sprawling on the floor.
While some of the girls cried out "Shame," and Button Bowie sniggered,
Bob Fortune exclaimed, "Stop that, ye big coward. Strike ane o' yer ain
size. I tell the same story that Willie telt aboot what he saw this
mornin'. Ca' me a leer! Try't!"
"Ay, I'll try't," retorted Bain in a blustering voice.
"Just try't," repeated Bob.
"Ay, I'll try't, and dae't tae."
But now an explosive snore proclaimed that the master was waking, and
in an instant the scholars were intent on their slates and books, just
as if they had never stopped their studies; and the teacher himself
tried to look as if he had never been asleep, but had only shut his
eyes to think out some deep problem. A fine bit of acting on both sides!
After the scholars were dismissed, Bob and Willie went to do some
errands at the village shops, and then they took their way homewards.
When they came to the foot of the avenue, whom should they see but Bain
and Bowie looking up at the chaffinch's nest? "Oh, ho!" cried Bain,
"so, this is yer precious nest;" and before they had any idea of what
was going to happen, the wretch had shot a stone with unerring aim, and
the ruins of the nest and the young birds, gasping out their little
lives, were lying on the hard ground. Willie burst into tears; but
Bob, rushing at the heartless rascal, thrashed him soundly, and ended
by throwing him down in a bed of nettles. Bain, starting up, ran to a
distance, and then threw a big stone which, had not Bob smartly ducked,
might have done serious damage. Bob, crying out, "Twa can play at that
game," sent after him a missile which hit him on the small of the back,
and he went howling round the corner, followed by his sympathising
spaniel, Button Bowie. Bob and Willie sorrowfully gathered up the
murdered birds, and buried them in a tuft of moss, while the parents,
fluttering round, filled the air with their distressful notes.
The next day, Thursday, was the annual fast, which, in this primitive
village of Sandyriggs, was most rigidly observed. As the preparation
for the solemn rites of the communion, it was considered even more
sacred than the Sabbath itself. Any secular work or any amusement on
such a day was considered to be an act of desecration. There is a story
still handed down, that a stranger, who was passing through the village
on a Fast Day, and who chanced to whistle, was stoned by the natives,
and obliged to run for his life. I myself distinctly remember my horror
when I saw two boys on such an occasion playing at marbles. I trembled
lest lightning should fall from heaven, and strike them dead. But of
late, there were some bold spirits who regarded this day as a mere
human institution, and, therefore, not binding upon them. Bob Fortune's
father was one of these. On principle, neither he nor his children went
to church on a Fast Day. And thus it happened that Bob had told Willie
that he was going on the morrow to see his big brother fish in the
loch.
On the forenoon of the Fast Day, George Torrance, silent and serious,
like a man bent on living up to a high ideal, set out with all his
family to church. It was a brilliant summer day, and as they went along
Willie could not help occasionally giving vent to his delight, when a
golden butterfly wavered across his path, or a lark sprang up singing
from a neighbouring grass field. But his unseasonable joy was frowned
down by his father; and his mother said, "For ony sake, laddie, mind
whatna day it is." When they came to the loch, there was Bob Fortune
in the distance. He had taken off his shoes, and was lying on his back
on the grass, and luxuriating in the sunshine. On seeing them, he rose
up and waved to them. Willie had soon good reason for remembering that
action. For the rest of his life, the image of the bright boy waving
his hand never left his memory.