LADS AND LASSES.
With the severe Auld Lichts the Sabbath began at six o'clock on Saturday
evening. By that time the gleaming shuttle was at rest, Davie Haggart
had strolled into the village from his pile of stones in the Whunny
road; Hendry Robb, the “dummy,” had sold his last barrowful of “rozetty
(resiny) roots” for firewood; and the people, having tranquilly supped
and soused their faces in their water-pails, slowly donned their Sunday
clothes. This ceremony was common to all; but here divergence set
in. The gray Auld Licht, to whom love was not even a name, sat in his
high-backed arm-chair by the hearth, Bible or “Pilgrim's Progress” in
hand, occasionally lapsing into slumber. But--though, when they got the
chance, they went willingly three times to the kirk--there were young
men in the community so flighty that, instead of dozing at home on
Saturday night, they dandered casually into the square, and, forming
into knots at the corners, talked solemnly and mysteriously of women.
Not even, on the night preceding his wedding was an Auld Licht
ever known to stay out after ten o'clock. So weekly conclaves at
street-corners came to an end at a comparatively early hour, one Coelebs
after another shuffling silently from the square until it echoed,
deserted, to the town-house clock. The last of the gallants, gradually
discovering that he was alone, would look around him musingly, and,
taking in the situation, slowly wend his way home. On no other night of
the week was frivolous talk about the softer sex indulged in, the Auld
Lichts being creatures of habit, who never thought of smiling on a
Monday. Long before they reached their teens they were earning their
keep as herds in the surrounding glens or filling “pirns” for their
parents; but they were generally on the brink of twenty before they
thought seriously of matrimony. Up to that time they only trifled with
the other sex's affections at a distance--filling a maid's water-pails,
perhaps, when no one was looking, or carrying her wob; at the
recollection of which they would slap their knees almost jovially on
Saturday night. A wife was expected to assist at the loom as well as to
be cunning in the making of marmalade and the firing of bannocks, and
there was consequently some heartburning among the lads for maids of
skill and muscle. The Auld Licht, however, who meant marriage seldom
loitered in the streets. By-and-bye there came a time when the clock
looked down through its cracked glass upon the hemmed-in square and
saw him not. His companions, gazing at each other's boots, felt that
something was going on, but made no remark.
A month ago, passing through the shabby, familiar square, I brushed
against a withered old man tottering down the street under a load of
yarn. It was piled on a wheelbarrow, which his feeble hands could
not have raised but for the rope of yarn that supported it from his
shoulders; and though Auld Licht was written on his patient eyes, I did
not immediately recognize Jamie Whamond. Years ago Jamie was a sturdy
weaver and fervent lover, whom I had the right to call my friend. Turn
back the century a few decades, and we are together on a moonlight
night, taking a short cut through the fields from the farm of
Craigiebuckle. Buxom were Craigiebuckle's “dochters,” and Jamie was
Janet's accepted suitor. It was a muddy road through damp grass, and we
picked our way silently over its ruts and pools. “I'm thinkin',” Jamie
said at last, a little wistfully, “that I micht hae been as weel wi'
Chirsty.” Chirsty was Janet's sister, and Jamie had first thought of
her. Craigiebuckle, however, strongly advised him to take Janet instead,
and he consented. Alack! heavy wobs have taken all the grace from
Janet's shoulders this many a year, though she and Jamie go bravely
down the hill together. Unless they pass the allotted span of life, the
“poors-house” will never know them. As for bonny Chirsty, she proved a
flighty thing, and married a deacon in the Established Church. The
Auld Lichts groaned over her fall, Craigiebuckle hung his head, and the
minister told her sternly to go her way. But a few weeks afterward Lang
Tammas, the chief elder, was observed talking with her for an hour in
Gowrie's close; and the very next Sabbath Chirsty pushed her husband in
triumph into her father's pew. The minister, though completely taken by
surprise, at once referred to the stranger, in a prayer of great length,
as a brand that might yet be plucked from the burning. Changing his
text, he preached at him; Lang Tammas, the precentor, and the whole
congregation (Chirsty included) sang at him; and before he exactly
realized his position he had become an Auld Licht for life. Chirsty's
triumph was complete when, next week, in broad daylight, too, the
minister's wife called, and (in the presence of Betsy Munn, who vouches
for the truth of the story) graciously asked her to come up to the manse
on Thursday, at 4 P.M., and drink a dish of tea. Chirsty, who knew her
position, of course begged modestly to be excused; but a coolness arose
over the invitation between her and Janet--who felt slighted--that was
only made up at the laying-out of Chirsty's father-in-law, to which
Janet was pleasantly invited.
When they had red up the house, the Auld Licht lassies sat in the
gloaming at their doors on three-legged stools, patiently knitting
stockings. To them came stiff-limbed youths who, with a “Blawy nicht,
Jeanie” (to which the inevitable answer was, “It is so, Cha-rles”),
rested their shoulders on the doorpost, and silently followed with their
eyes the flashing needles. Thus the courtship began--often to
ripen promptly into marriage, at other times to go no farther. The
smooth-haired maids, neat in their simple wrappers, knew they were on
their trial, and that it behoved them to be wary. They had not compassed
twenty winters without knowing that Marget Todd lost Davie Haggart
because she “fittit” a black stocking with brown worsted, and that
Finny's grieve turned from Bell Whamond on account of the frivolous
flowers in her bonnet: and yet Bell's prospects, as I happen to know,
at one time looked bright and promising. Sitting over her father's
peat-fire one night gossiping with him about fishing-flies and tackle,
I noticed the grieve, who had dropped in by appointment with some
ducks' eggs on which Bell's clockin' hen was to sit, performing some
sleight-of-hand trick with his coat-sleeve. Craftily he jerked and
twisted it, till his own photograph (a black smudge on white) gradually
appeared to view. This he gravely slipped into the hands of the maid of
his choice, and then took his departure, apparently much relieved. Had
not Bell's light-headedness driven him away, the grieve would have soon
followed up his gift with an offer of his hand. Some night Bell would
have “seen him to the door,” and they would have stared sheepishly at
each other before saying good-night. The parting salutation given, the
grieve would still have stood his ground, and Bell would have waited
with him. At last, “Will ye hae's, Bell?” would have dropped from his
half-reluctant lips; and Bell would have mumbled, “Ay,” with her thumb
in her mouth. “Guid nicht to ye, Bell,” would be the next remark--“Guid
nicht to ye, Jeames,” the answer; the humble door would close softly,
and Bell and her lad would have been engaged. But, as it was, their
attachment never got beyond the silhouette stage, from which, in the
ethics of the Auld Lichts, a man can draw back in certain circumstances
without loss of honor. The only really tender thing I ever heard an
Auld Licht lover say to his sweetheart was when Gowrie's brother looked
softly into Easie Tamson's eyes and whispered, “Do you swite (sweat)?”
Even then the effect was produced more by the loving cast in Gowrie's
eye than by the tenderness of the words themselves.
The courtships were sometimes of long duration, but as soon as the young
man realized that he was courting he proposed. Cases were not wanting in
which he realized this for himself, but as a rule he had to be told of
it.
There were a few instances of weddings among the Auld Lichts that did
not take place on Friday. Betsy Munn's brother thought to assert his two
coal-carts, about which he was sinfully puffed up, by getting married
early in the week; but he was a pragmatical feckless body, Jamie.
The foreigner from York that Finny's grieve after disappointing Jinny
Whamond took, sought to sow the seeds of strife by urging that Friday
was an unlucky day; and I remember how the minister, who was always
great in a crisis, nipped the bickering in the bud by adducing the
conclusive fact that he had been married on the sixth day of the
week himself. It was a judicious policy on Mr. Dishart's part to take
vigorous action at once and insist on the solemnization of the marriage
on a Friday or not at all, for he best kept superstition out of the
congregation by branding it as heresy. Perhaps the Auld Lichts were only
ignorant of the grieve's lass' theory because they had not thought of
it. Friday's claims, too, were incontrovertible; for the Saturday's
being a slack day gave the couple an opportunity to put their but and
ben in order, and on Sabbath they had a gay day of it--three times at
the kirk. The honeymoon over, the racket of the loom began again on the
Monday.
The natural politeness of the Allardice family gave me my invitation to
Tibbie's wedding. I was taking tea and cheese early one wintry afternoon
with the smith and his wife, when little Joey Todd in his Sabbath
clothes peered in at the passage, and then knocked primly at the door.
Andra forgot himself, and called out to him to come in by; but Jess
frowned him into silence, and, hastily donning her black mutch, received
Willie on the threshold. Both halves of the door were open, and the
visitor had looked us over carefully before knocking; but he had come
with the compliments of Tibbie's mother, requesting the pleasure of Jess
and her man that evening to the lassie's marriage with Sam'l Todd,
and the knocking at the door was part of the ceremony. Five minutes
afterward Joey returned to beg a moment of me in the passage; when I,
too, got my invitation. The lad had just received, with an expression of
polite surprise, though he knew he could claim it as his right, a
slice of crumbling shortbread, and taken his staid departure, when Jess
cleared the tea-things off the table, remarking simply that it was a
mercy we had not got beyond the first cup. We then retired to dress.
About six o'clock, the time announced for the ceremony, I elbowed my way
through the expectant throng of men, women, and children that already
besieged the smith's door. Shrill demands of “Toss, toss!” rent the air
every time Jess' head showed on the window-blind, and Andra hoped, as I
pushed open the door, “that I hadna forgotten my bawbees.” Weddings were
celebrated among the Auld Lichts by showers of ha'pence, and the guests
on their way to the bride's house had to scatter to the hungry rabble
like housewives feeding poultry. Willie Todd, the best man, who had
never come out so strong in his life before, slipped through the back
window, while the crowd, led on by Kitty McQueen, seethed in front, and
making a bolt for it to the “'Sosh,” was back in a moment with a
handful of small change. “Dinna toss ower lavishly at first,” the
smith whispered me nervously, as we followed Jess and Willie into the
darkening wynd.
The guests were packed hot and solemn in Johnny Allardice's “room:” the
men anxious to surrender their seats to the ladies who happened to be
standing, but too bashful to propose it; the ham and the fish frizzling
noisily side by side but the house, and hissing out every now and then
to let all whom it might concern know that Janet Craik was adding more
water to the gravy. A better woman never lived; but, oh, the hypocrisy
of the face that beamed greeting to the guests as if it had nothing to
do but politely show them in, and gasped next moment with upraised arms
over what was nearly a fall in crockery. When Janet sped to the door
her “spleet new” merino dress fell, to the pulling of a string, over
her home-made petticoat, like the drop-scene in a theatre, and rose as
promptly when she returned to slice the bacon. The murmur of admiration
that filled the room when she entered with the minister was an
involuntary tribute to the spotlessness of her wrapper and a great
triumph for Janet. If there is an impression that the dress of the Auld
Lichts was on all occasions as sombre as their faces, let it be known
that the bride was but one of several in “whites,” and that Mag Munn
had only at the last moment been dissuaded from wearing flowers. The
minister, the Auld Lichts congratulated themselves, disapproved of all
such decking of the person and bowing of the head to idols; but on such
an occasion he was not expected to observe it. Bell Whamond, however,
has reason for knowing that, marriages or no marriages, he drew the line
at curls.
By-and-bye Sam'l Todd, looking a little dazed, was pushed into the
middle of the room to Tibbie's side, and the minister raised his voice
in prayer. All eyes closed reverently, except perhaps the bridegroom's,
which seemed glazed and vacant. It was an open question in the community
whether Mr. Dishart did not miss his chance at weddings; the men shaking
their heads over the comparative brevity of the ceremony, the women
worshipping him (though he never hesitated to rebuke them when they
showed it too openly) for the urbanity of his manners. At that time,
however, only a minister of such experience as Mr. Dishart's predecessor
could lead up to a marriage in prayer without inadvertently joining
the couple; and the catechizing was mercifully brief. Another prayer
followed the union; the minister waived his right to kiss the bride;
every one looked at every other one as if he had for the moment
forgotten what he was on the point of saying and found it very annoying;
and Janet signed frantically to Willie Todd, who nodded intelligently
in reply, but evidently had no idea what she meant. In time Johnny
Allardice, our host, who became more and more and doited as the night
proceeded, remembered his instructions, and led the way to the kitchen,
where the guests, having politely informed their hostess that they were
not hungry, partook of a hearty tea. Mr. Dishart presided, with the
bride and bridegroom near him; but though he tried to give an agreeable
turn to the conversation by describing the extensions at the cemetery,
his personality oppressed us, and we only breathed freely when he rose
to go. Yet we marvelled at his versatility. In shaking hands with the
newly married couple the minister reminded them that it was leap-year,
and wished them “three hundred and sixty-six happy and God-fearing
days.”
Sam'l's station being too high for it, Tibbie did not have a penny
wedding, which her thrifty mother bewailed, penny weddings starting a
couple in life. I can recall nothing more characteristic of the nation
from which the Auld Lichts sprang than the penny wedding, where the only
revellers that were not out of pocket by it were the couple who gave
the entertainment. The more the guests ate and drank the better,
pecuniarily, for their hosts. The charge for admission to the penny
wedding (practically to the feast that followed it) varied in different
districts, but with us it was generally a shilling. Perhaps the penny
extra to the fiddler accounts for the name penny wedding. The ceremony
having been gone through in the bride's house, there was an adjournment
to a barn or other convenient place of meeting, where was held the
nuptial feast; long white boards from Rob Angus' saw-mill, supported on
trestles, stood in lieu of tables; and those of the company who could
not find a seat waited patiently against the wall for a vacancy. The
shilling gave every guest the free run of the groaning board; but though
fowls were plentiful, and even white bread too, little had been spent on
them. The farmers of the neighborhood, who looked forward to providing
the young people with drills of potatoes for the coming winter, made
a bid for their custom by sending them a fowl gratis for the marriage
supper. It was popularly understood to be the oldest cock of the
farmyard, but for all that it made a brave appearance in a shallow sea
of soup. The fowls were always boiled--without exception, so far as my
memory carries me; the guid-wife never having the heart to roast them,
and so lose the broth. One round of whiskey-and-water was all the drink
to which his shilling entitled the guest. If he wanted more he had
to pay for it. There was much revelry, with song and dance, that no
stranger could have thought those stiff-limbed weavers capable of; and
the more they shouted and whirled through the barn, the more their host
smiled and rubbed his hands. He presided at the bar improvised for the
occasion, and if the thing was conducted with spirit his bride flung an
apron over her gown and helped him. I remember one elderly bridegroom
who, having married a blind woman, had to do double work at his penny
wedding. It was a sight to see him flitting about the torch-lit barn,
with a kettle of hot water in one hand and a besom to sweep up crumbs in
the other.
Though Sam'l had no penny wedding, however, we made a night of it at his
marriage.
Wedding-chariots were not in those days, though I know of Auld Lichts
being conveyed to marriages nowadays by horses with white ears. The
tea over, we formed in couples, and--the best man with the bride,
the bridegroom with the best maid, leading the way--marched in slow
procession in the moonlight night to Tibbie's new home, between lines of
hoarse and eager onlookers. An attempt was made by an itinerant musician
to head the company with his fiddle; but instrumental music, even in the
streets, was abhorrent to sound Auld Lichts, and the minister had spoken
privately to Willie Todd on the subject. As a consequence, Peter was
driven from the ranks. The last thing I saw that night, as we filed,
bareheaded and solemn, into the newly married couple's house, was Kitty
McQueen's vigorous arm, in a dishevelled sleeve, pounding a pair of
urchins who had got between her and a muddy ha'penny.
That night there was revelry and boisterous mirth (or what the Auld
Lichts took for such) in Tibbie's kitchen. At eleven o'clock Davit Lunan
cracked a joke. Davie Haggart, in reply to Bell Dundas' request, gave
a song of distinctly secular tendencies. The bride (who had carefully
taken off her wedding-gown on getting home and donned a wrapper)
coquettishly let the bridegroom's father hold her hand. In Auld Licht
circles, when one of the company was offered whiskey and refused it, the
others, as if pained even at the offer, pushed it from them as a thing
abhorred. But Davie Haggart set another example on this occasion, and no
one had the courage to refuse to follow it. We sat late round the dying
fire, and it was only Willie Todd's scandalous assertion (he was but a
boy) about his being able to dance that induced us to think of moving.
In the community, I understand, this marriage is still memorable as the
occasion on which Bell Whamond laughed in the minister's face.