THE MARRIAGE AND THE HOME-COMING.
“We’re a’ noddin’,
Nid, nid, noddin’,
We’re a’ noddin’
At our house at hame.”
My stay at the manse had been longer than I expected. When I reached
Greenknowe, I had hardly recovered from the scare I had got by the
proposal to conduct family worship, and my account of the visit to
the manse, although short, was a jumble about Bell, and skates, and
good Samaritans. Agnes looked at me anxiously, and said, “Are you well
enough? You look excited.” I told her what had excited me, at which
she first laughed, then looked thoughtful, then sympathetic, and said,
“You’re tired, and it is late; come over to-morrow night, if you can;”
and after a pause she said, “My mother has often wished me to ask you
to make family worship here, and you will just begin to-morrow night.”
This was adding fuel to flame; so, observing my restlessness, she said,
“Oh, Robert, forgive me for adding to your excitement” (that was easily
done,—the forgiveness, I mean); “you need a good night’s rest.” I did
very much, but I did not get it.
I went to bed immediately on going home, tossed and tumbled about,
angry at myself for being so unwilling to undertake a duty which, as
at one time an aspirant to the ministry, should not have unhinged me.
Then my conscience smote me for being undecided in religious matters;
then I resolved to be more decided, and began to compose my first
social prayer. As I tried this, I found one bit forgotten as another
was being thought over. I was about to rise and _write_ a prayer, but
checked myself, and resolved to be a _man_ (when a man does this, he is
more likely to prove himself a child), and to look for help when it was
needed where it was to be found.
_P.P.C._
Next night found me at Greenknowe, quietly retailing Mr. and Mrs.
Barrie’s sayings; and the “books” were brought in before supper, and
I at least got through. Agnes said she was much obliged to me. Mrs.
Stewart said little more than “Thank you;” but after the old lady had
retired, Agnes told me, in an indirect, quiet way, that Mr. McNab never
referred to her mother as “His aged servant,” which I had unwisely
done, but as “the handmaid of the Lord.” A young college friend had
lost a legacy by a similar mistake in the case of a maiden aunt. My
readers will excuse me for leaving this bit to suggest its own lesson.
Mrs. Stewart was barely sixty years old: how our ideas of “aged” change
as we age ourselves!
I carried quite a bundle of letters to the post office that night,
many of them invitations to the marriage, others P.P.Cs., which I got
explained by Agnes, after a quick sideward movement of the head down,
followed by a slow movement of it up, and an inquiring stare, as much
as to say, Do you _really_ not know? “It’s _pour prendre congé_—to take
leave, to say good-bye.”
“Oh,” said I, “Mrs. Barrie spoke about P.P.C.; and when I asked the
meaning, she said something about French, and to ask you. That’s
P.P.C., is it?”
The marriage took place, but I spare my readers an account of it. I
could not describe the dresses so as to _inform_ the ladies, nor the
presents (which now-a-days are so numerous and costly as to have to
undergo the trying ordeal of being laid out for exhibition in a special
room), for these were more useful than ornamental. Many of them were
esteemed for the donor’s sake rather than for their intrinsic value;
none more so than a book, called _Cottage Comforts_, from Mrs. Barrie,
which proved very useful to us, and became Agnes’s present to young
housekeepers she was interested in, many of whom in after life thanked
her for the good hints and help it gave them. Mr. Barrie gave me a
copy of the _Confession of Faith_, and asked me to read it carefully.
Although it was the standard of the Church to which I belonged, and I
had declared my adherence to it, I had till then hardly opened it. When
I did look into it, many of its statements seemed harsh, and stated
so baldly in logical order and theological language, that they seemed
to me very different from the teachings of the Bible, interwoven and
relieved as these are by illustration, narrative, and incident; and I
still think, because it wants the charm of the associations with which
the doctrines are joined in the Scriptures, that it is apt to bewilder,
if not to prejudice unfavourably, the ordinary reader; but the more I
examine it, and compare the parallel passages (_i.e._ references to
texts confirming the doctrines), I see it deserves the name Mr. Barrie
gives it in its relation to the Bible,—“an excellent summary of which
is to be found in the Westminster Confession of Faith.” Although the
excellence is more marked than the summariness; it is a pretty long
_summary_. The “Apostles’ Creed” comes nearer that.
_PLAIN SPEAKING._
Dinner followed almost immediately after the marriage. There was a
little speechmaking after dinner, or “the collation,” as Mrs. McNab
called it. Mr. Barrie, in proposing our health, was neat and hearty. He
had a hit at me “once thinking of getting married;”—told a story of a
lad who, when going to seek a wife, looked so unhappy that his mother
said to him, “Keep up yer heart, Johnnie, ma man; faint heart never
won fair lady;” “Eh, mother,” said Johnnie, “I’ve mair need to keep it
down, for it’s amaist in my mou’ a’ready;”—wished us many happy days,
and hoped our married life would be happier than his had been. It took
some of us a few seconds to see that this was a very, very good wish.
My uncle proposed Mrs. Stewart’s health. He was a plain, blunt man, and
spoke of her as his “auld friend.” Mrs. Stewart was in grand spirits,
and said, “Auld, Mr. Martin! auld! I’m no’ sae auld as you.” “Weel,
ye’re as auld-like, ony way,” said the honest man; and Mrs. Stewart
and he joined as heartily in the laugh that followed as any of us, and
it was so long that he ended his speech by a nod to Mrs. Stewart, and
“Here’s t’ye, mem; your very good health.”
A confirmed bachelor proposed the bridesmaids. He was, of course,
unable to do justice to the toast, with “_such_” bridesmaids, etc.
Mr. McNab gave the health of Mr. Barrie. He spoke well; my uncle said
he had “a grand stock o’ dictionar’ and college-bred words.”.
“_THE FROSTIT CORN._”
Some songs were sung. The bachelor friend had a fine voice, and had
cultivated it carefully. Few could equal him at “Gae fetch to me a pint
o’ wine;” and when pressed to sing it, he bantered about having lost
his best song, “O Nanny, wilt thou gang wi’ me?” he had not even got
round sufficiently to try “My Nannie’s awa’,” but he hoped he would
regain his spirits; he would try “When our king comes o’er the water,”
and gave it in fine style. A cousin of Agnes’s, her senior by a very
few years, sang “A’body’s like to get married but me,” with sweetness
and humour, the last three verses so very well as to put our bachelor
friend in great spirits. When she finished the following verse, the
last one—
“It’s hard to tak’ shelter behint a laigh dyke,
It’s hard to gang wi’ ane ye dinna weel like,
It’s hard to forsake ane ye fain wad gang wi’,
But it’s harder that a’body’s married but me,”—
my uncle said, “Ye maun be ill to please; it canna hae been for want o’
offers.” He was then pressed to sing, and did his best; the words were
new to all of us, but the tune, “Johnnie Cope,” was familiar. He said
it was written by a friend of his, a farmer beside him. We suspected
that the author was _always_ very near him. He had sung it at the
rent dinner in his laird’s house, and the laird was delighted with it,
although it “wasna jist exactly what he wad like to happen to himsel’:”
THE FROSTIT CORN.
_Tune_—“Johnnie Cope.”
“Oh, I’m a young farmer hard set by the frost,
My gude expectations hae sairly been cross’t,
My craps that look’t weel, they are noo nearly lost,
By thir calamitous mornin’s.
“In the midst o’ last simmer it was understude
That we wad a’ haen plenty o’ gude halesome fude,
For man an’ for beast; an’ we ettled to dae gude,
But the frost it has backit it sairly.
“An’ when that the frost it did gang awa’,
The rain it came on like to ruin us a’;
It rained that lang, that it shortened the straw,
An’ added aye the mair till our mornin’.
“But yet for a’ that we maunna compleen,
It was sae ordered, or it ne’er wad ha’ been;
It was maybe for our gude, tho’ _that_ hasna yet been seen,
For to humble our pride in the mornin’.
“When things lookit weel, a scheme I had laid,
I promised to marry a bloomin’ young maid,
To share o’ the o’ercome when a’thing was paid,
But the frost it has backit it sairly.
“But my crap as it is, it is noo in the yaird,
An’ still for the lassie I hae a regaird;
I think that I’ll marry her, an’ no pay the laird,—
Let him ken there was frost in the mornin’.
“An’ if he should break out in ragin’ and strife,
He may weel tak’ the gear, but he’ll no tak’ my life;
If I should hae naething else, I will aye hae my wife
To comfort me in the mornin’.”
Need I say that the applause was loud, and long, and _real_?
“_BLITHE AN’ MERRY WERE WE A’._”
Marriage trips, wedding tours, were not so common forty years ago as
they are now: we had none. Shortly after my uncle’s song was finished,
and with the glee it inspired still beaming in their faces, the guests
went to _our_ house. We were the last to leave, which we did under a
shower of old shoes “for luck.” There was the usual gathering of noisy
children round the bride’s door, waiting for the coppers scattered
on such occasions; and as they scrambled for them, we got into the
drosky, and were driven home, followed by an increasing number of
children cheering in an intermittent way, all anxious to be in time
for the “scatterin’ o’ the ha’pennies,” which had to be repeated at
the bridegroom’s door. There was an outer circle of grown-up people,
who showed their goodwill by a welcoming cheer. As Agnes crossed her
threshold, my oldest sister, who had come to “receive” her, allowed
an oat cake to fall on the young wife’s head; and the younger folks
scrambled for the bits, as these had some not very clearly defined
faculty of foretelling their future luck, especially if confirmed by
a dream over the bridescake. Agnes was placed by the matrons present
at the head of the supper table, and thereby installed as mistress
of the house. After supper there were games, in which the elderly
folks joined, the older men with demonstrative glee. The more matronly
matrons required a good deal of pressing—their “play days were bye;”
but most of them went through a short game, others kept remonstrating
with the old men, especially their own husbands, who were oftener up,
and who even when looking on capered and “hooched” (_i.e._ shouted
merrily):—“Tammas, Tammas! ye’re forgettin’ yersel’;”—“Stop that auld
man o’ mine; he’ll hurt himsel’;”—“Oh man, James, ye’re ower auld for
sic nonsense. Let the young folks carry on the games noo.”
After the first round of games, in which all the guests—old and
young—took part, and the seniors had shown their _skill_, these mostly
settled to be spectators, all the while enjoying the frolics of the
young folk as much as their own canty cracks, whilst the younger
portion had the carrying on of the fun, which they did right merrily.
Old Scotch songs were sung, and kindly sentiments uttered, as those
will readily believe whose memory can recall the homely convivialities
of forty or fifty years ago. My uncle was pressed by old and young to
sing another song like “The Frostit Corn,”—“one we did not hear every
day,”—“a real country-fireside song.” He said he “would gie ane; it was
no’ as gude as ‘The Frostit Corn.’ It was ca’d ‘The Country Rockin’.’
But maist o’ ye’ll no’ ken what a rockin’ is. It’s a gatherin’ o’
neebors for a night’s diversion. The women brang their ‘rocks’—things
for spinning woo’ or lint wi’, an’ birled an’ span an’ crackit awa’.
I’ve seen them hunders o’ times in my young days, but there’s no sic a
thing noo as ‘the rock and the wee pickle tow.’ Mind it’s hamespun an’
countrified.” Then he began:—
THE COUNTRY ROCKIN’.
“It has often been alloo’d that the best o’ human life
Is the hours o’ social harmony when free from party strife,
When freendship smiles and love beguiles ’mang lads an’ lasses
kindly jokin’;
These joys we only find when assembled at a country rockin’.
“When the gudeman frae the fire bids us frankly venture ben,
In hamely sangs and social joys a nicht wi’ him to spen’,
The welcome kind attracts each mind, we needna ither friendly
token,
When we join the honest social core assembled at a country
rockin’.
“Noo, since we’re cheerie met for a nicht o’ social joy,
Let every care be banished far that wad our peace destroy;
When friendship smiles and love beguiles, at sangs we’ll hae a
hearty yokin’,
An’ we’ll chant the lays o’ Robbie Burns, wha first described the
country rockin’.
“An’ when we tak’ our hameward road, it’s no taen sair amiss,
Tho’ frae some bonny smilin’ face we steal a wee bit kiss,
Her heart to move, an’ tell our love in vows that never will be
broken,
Till in some biggin’ o’ our ain we hae a hearty country rockin’.”
_AUNTIE MATTIE ON SONGS._
In the enthusiastic chorus every voice joined, and over and over
again after the last verse did the chorus ring through the room; and,
“Anither, Mr. Martin, anither like that!” was rained on the canny man.
During the pause, Auntie Mattie, a sister of Mrs. Stewart’s, said,
“Sing the ‘Farmer’s Ingle,’ Mr. Martin, for auld langsyne. I like it
better than the ‘Rockin’.”
“Sae dae I,” said my uncle, “but it’s threadbare noo.”
“Threadbare!” said Auntie Mattie; “threadbare, did ye say, Mr. Martin?
A sang that’s worth ca’in’ a sang at a’ will never get threadbare, ony
mair than the sun’ll get auld-fashioned altho’ we see’t every day o’
our lives; and ye’ll surely sing’t to obleege me?”
Auntie Mattie was a sonsy, kindly, cheery woman—a’body’s body; but she
hardly expected that my uncle would bring her in for a song by the
paction he made.
“Mattie,” said he,—“oh, I beg yer pardon, I should hae ca’d ye Mrs.
Dickson, but ye lookit sae like what ye did langsyne that Mattie cam’
oot afore I kent,—I’ll sing the ‘Farmer’s Ingle’ if ye’ll sing the
‘Lawland lads think they are fine.’ Ye sang’t at our waddin’, an’ it’s
ringin’ in my heid yet. Thae auld sangs are worth a bushel o’ the new
trash the folk ca’ sangs noo-a-days. Come awa’, my bonnie leddy, let’s
hear the ‘Lawland Lads,’ and ye’ll hae the ‘Farmer’s Ingle’ as weel as
I can gie’t; that ye will.”
Auntie Mattie said, “Hoots!” and “Nonsense!” and that “her voice was
clean gane;” but her singing of the “Lawland Lads” contradicted all
these statements, and was so sweet, and so true, and so natural, as
to command strict silence at the second note, which deepened as she
proceeded. The verse—
“Few compliments between us pass,
I ca’ him aye my Hieland laddie,
An’ he ca’s me his Lawland lass,
An’ rows me in his tartan plaidie”—
as _she_ sung it, was a thing to be remembered. When she had finished
and the sincere applause was over, which took the shape of little
complimentary speeches to her, and expressions of mutual delight to
one another, rather than the noisy demonstration which had followed my
uncle’s songs, my uncle said, “Eh, Mattie—hoots! excuse me. Eh, Mrs.
Dickson, there’s no’ a fail’d inch o’ ye. That sang was like caller
air; it was jist grand, splendid a’thegither. It’s taen the breath frae
me completely. I daurna sing after that.”
“_THE FARMER’S INGLE._”
“Come away, Mr. Martin,” said she; “a bargain’s a bargain. Come away
wi’ the ‘Farmer’s Ingle,’” which he did. And I give the song as he sang
it, as, although common in country districts in my young days, it is
little sung now. The chorus was well known to us all, and we _did_ join
in it:—
“Let Turks triumph, let tyrants pray,
Let poets sing melodiously,
Let Turks triumph and priests live single,
But my delight’s at the farmer’s ingle.
_Chorus_—For the farmer’s ingle is the place
Where freedom shines on ilka face.
My wish is while on earth to mingle
Wi’ gude honest people at the farmer’s ingle.
“In winter when the frost an’ snaw
Drives a’ the masons frae the wa’,
Your hearts wad warm and yer ears wad tingle
To hear the cracks at the farmer’s ingle.
_Chorus_—For the farmer’s ingle is the place, etc.
“The British ship’s the seaman’s boast,
Success to tredd’s the merchant’s toast,
The miser for his money does pingle,
But my delight’s in the farmer’s ingle.
_Chorus_—For the farmer’s ingle is the place, etc.
“The sailor boldly ploughs the main,
The soldier flies o’er heaps of slain,
But my wish on earth’s ne’er to live single;
Here’s a bumper to the farmer’s ingle.
_Chorus_—For the farmer’s ingle is the place,” etc.
The “thinking of going home,” which had been hinted at once or twice
before, was now general, and the party broke up with good wishes and
kind feelings warmly expressed: “We’ve haen a grand nicht o’t!”—“Lang
may ye be spared to ane anither, an’ aye be as happy as ye’ve made your
freends the nicht!”—crowned by “Auld Langsyne,” with, as the play-bills
have it, “the whole strength of the company.”
Our house was above the shop; separate villas, now so common for
tradesmen and shopkeepers, were then only occupied by the gentry. The
system of villas in the outskirts has shortened the hours of business,
and is healthier, but the above-the-shop houses kept a man, and often,
be it said with all honour, his wife, thoroughly at the head of
affairs. In many businesses, then as yet, the wives were invaluable.
Who cannot recall the active, polite, effective way in which the
Mistress “kept the shop”? and how nice it was to be served by her own
self, with her interchange of homely civilities, and the ready knack
she had of hitting on what was wanted! This good custom is happily
still not uncommon. Long may it continue!
_PEGGY RITCHIE ON THE KIRKYARD._
My business did not require Agnes to be in the shop, but in my absence
she used to look in to help the lad or lads, and took to it, and the
customers took to her. Often, also, when the assistants were out, she
came down to keep me (maybe to keep herself) from wearying; and she
soon made such changes as only an orderly woman can devise; and from
being interested, she easily became acquainted with the details, and
made alterations here and reforms there that resulted in our increased
prosperity and comfort. We went on steadily making things better, soon
got to be easier in money matters, then laid past a little, then looked
out for some investment. But I am the writer, not the subject, of
these “bits,” and will spare my readers the dry details of a homely
life in a country village. I only add that we had no extra call on
our means in the way of having to bring up a family. This was a sore
subject many years ago, but it is a mere fact now.
My wife being anxious to get everything to her mind about the house,
began next morning to clear up, and sent for some folks who were very
glad to get some of the substantial remains to eke out their scanty
tables. One of these was Peggy Ritchie. She had been a servant in my
father’s house at the time of his death, and my housekeeper for nearly
a year thereafter. She had married Gavin Sinclair, a widower with a
moderately-sized family. Her father was the sexton and minister’s man,
but now unfit for work, and Gavin, or Guy as he was commonly called,
“officiated” instead of old Adam Ritchie. Peggy said she was “thankfu’
to get onything, forbye being proud to be mindit, for Guy was very
slack the noo, there werena near sae mony deaths as ane would expect
this cauld weather. It was very unfortunate, it came at an ill time; if
there wasna something doin’ in the kirkyard soon, it wad be a bad job.
Guy could say, as the beadle o’ Borthwick said to the Lord Chief Baron,
‘he hadna buried a leevin’ craitur for six weeks.’”
“And how’s your father, Peggy?” said my wife.
“Very middlin’, Mrs. Martin” (Peggy used _Mrs._ very often and _very_
graciously); “but he was sayin’ to Guy last nicht, after Mr. Barrie
gaed out,—he ca’d in to see my faither; he often ca’s. I’m aye glad
to see him. He kens what puir folk need in cauld weather. Well, as I
was sayin’, my faither says to Guy, ‘Be thankfu’ ye hae Mr. Barrie to
deal wi’; he’s a considerate man an’ a gentleman. Ane o’ the ministers
before him, no’ to name onybody,—it’s as weel no’ to gie names,—weel,
ane o’ the ministers in my day,’ says my faither, ‘was the maist
pernickety, impatient, bathersome craitur’ ever was seen. If he wanted
onything, ye must do’t in an instant, or he was fair dancin’ wi’
passion. It was a thrang time in the kirkyard, a sair winter, and I had
some idle men helpin’ me. The minister was getting something done to
the manse, and aye send-sendin’ for me to help, and to come that very
moment. I’ve actually seen me,’ says my faither, ‘hae to bring men out
o’ the very grave to serve him.’ My faither’s sair failed.”
Knowing that Peggy had been my housekeeper, my wife asked if there was
anything I was specially fond of, any special dishes, etc.
_MATHIESON’S HEID._
Peggy’s sense of importance was flattered at being _consulted_ (as she
afterwards put it), and she said, with a gesture of surprise, “The
maister,—Maister Martin,—there was nae man could be easier pleased wi’
his meat than him. Gie him a lamb leg an’ a berry tart to his denner,
an’ he was perfectly satisfied.” So he may, thought my wife.
“Speakin’ about denners,” continued Peggy, “Miss Park got a terrible
fricht last Saturday nicht. The flesher’s laddie was takin’ a sheep’s
heid to the Mathiesons, but as there was naebody in the house, he raps
on Miss Park’s door,—she stops next them. Weel, her servant was out,
an’ she answers the door hersel’. She’s an awfu’ nervish craitur’, so
she opens a wee bit o’ the door, a’ shakin’, and disna the laddie shove
the sheep’s heid bang in? The door was that little open that the neck
rubbit against her hands; and he bawls out, ‘Mathieson’s heid,’ an’ let
it fa’ in the lobby an’ awa’ in a moment. She was that fear’d that she
couldna move, but keepit starin’ awa’ at the ugly black head, thinking
a’ sorts o’ things. When her servant cam’ in she was fair chitterin’
wi’ fear. It was real thochtless o’ the laddie.”
Blinkbonny had its events and “foys” (_i.e._ entertainments), but
nothing of special interest occurred until the Disruption of 1843, of
which I will treat in my next chapter.