sugar, tea and bloaters, starch and gingham, lead pencils and
sausages, lie side by side cosily. Boxes of pins are kept on top of
kegs of herrings. Tins of coffee are distributed impartially anywhere
and everywhere, and the bacon sometimes reposes in a glass case with
small wares and findings, out of the reach of Alexander's dogs.
Alexander is one of a brood, or perhaps I should say three broods, of
children which wander among the barrels and boxes and hams and winseys
seeking what they may devour,--a handful of sugar, a prune, or a
sweetie.
We often see the bairns at their luncheon or dinner in a little room
just off the shop, Alexander the Small always sitting or kneeling on a
"creepie," holding his plate down firmly with the left hand and eating
with the right, whether the food be fish, porridge, or broth. In the
Phin family the person who does not hold his plate down runs the risk
of losing it to one of the other children or to the dogs, who, with
eager eye and reminding paw, gather round the hospitable board,
licking their chops hopefully.
I enjoy these scenes very much, but alas, I can no longer witness them
as often as formerly.
This morning Mrs. Phin greeted me with some embarrassment.
"Maybe ye'll no ken me," she said, her usually clear speech a little
blurred. "It's the teeth. I've mislaid 'em somewhere. I paid far too
much siller for 'em to wear 'em ilka day. Sometimes I rest 'em in the
tea-box to keep 'em awa' frae the bairns, but I canna find 'em theer.
I'm thinkin' maybe they'll be in the rice, but I've been ower thrang
to luik!"
This anecdote was too rich to keep to myself, but its unconscious
humor made no impression upon Salemina, who insisted upon the
withdrawal of our patronage. I have tried to persuade her that,
whatever may be said of tea and rice, we run no risk in buying eggs;
but she is relentless.
* * * * *
The kirkyard where Rab's two predecessors have been laid, and where
Rab will lie when Mrs. Phin has "boxed" him, is a sleepy little place
set on a gentle slope of ground, softly shaded by willow and yew
trees. It is inclosed by a stone wall, into which an occasional
ancient tombstone is built, its name and date almost obliterated by
stress of time and weather.
We often walk through its quiet, myrtle-bordered paths on our way to
the other end of the village, where Mrs. Bruce, the flesher, keeps an
unrivaled assortment of beef and mutton. The headstones, many of them
laid flat upon the graves, are interesting to us because of their
quaint inscriptions, in which the occupation of the deceased is often
stated with modest pride and candor. One expects to see the
achievements of the soldier, the sailor, or the statesman carved in
the stone that marks his resting-place, but to our eyes it is strange
enough to read that the subject of eulogy was a plumber, tobacconist,
maker of golf-balls, or a golf champion; in which latter case there is
a spirited etching or bas-relief of the dead hero, with
knickerbockers, cap, and clubs complete.
There, too, lies Thomas Loughead, Hairdresser, a profession far too
little celebrated in song and story. His stone is a simple one and
bears merely the touching tribute:--
_He was lovely and pleasant in his life_,
the inference being to one who knows a line of Scripture, that in his
death he was not divided.
These kirkyard personalities almost lead one to believe in the
authenticity of the British tradesman's epitaph, wherein his
practical-minded relict stated that the "bereaved widow would continue
to carry on the tripe and trotter business at the old stand."
* * * * *
One day when we were walking through the little village of Strathdee
we turned the corner of a quiet side street and came suddenly upon
something altogether strange and unexpected.
A stone cottage of the every-day sort stood a little back from the
road and bore over its front door a sign announcing that Mrs. Bruce,
Flesher, carried on her business within; and indeed one could look
through the windows and see ruddy joints hanging from beams, and piles
of pink and white steaks and chops lying neatly on the counter,
crying, "Come, eat me!" Nevertheless, one's first glance would be
arrested neither by Mrs. Bruce's black-and-gold sign, nor by the
enticements of her stock in trade, because one's attention is knocked
squarely between the eyes by an astonishing shape that arises from the
patch of lawn in front of the cottage, and completely dominates the
scene. Imagine yourself face to face with the last thing you would
expect to see in a modest front dooryard,--the figurehead of a ship,
heroic in size, gorgeous in color, majestic in pose! A female
personage it appears to be from the drapery, which is the only key the
artist furnishes as to sex, and a queenly female withal, for she wears
a crown at least a foot high, and brandishes a forbidding sceptre. All
this is seen from the front, but the rear view discloses the fact that
the lady terminates in the tail of a fish which wriggles artistically
in mid-air and is of a brittle sort, as it has evidently been thrice
broken and glued together.
Mrs. Bruce did not leave us long in suspense, but obligingly came out,
partly to comment on the low price of mutton and partly to tell the
tale of the mammoth mermaid. By rights, of course, Mrs. Bruce's
husband should have been the gallant captain of a bark which foundered
at sea and sent every man to his grave on the ocean bed. The ship's
figurehead should have been discovered by some miracle, brought to the
sorrowing widow, and set up in the garden in eternal remembrance of
the dear departed. This was the story in my mind, but as a matter of
fact the rude effigy was wrought by Mrs. Bruce's father for a ship to
be called the Sea Queen, but by some mischance, ship and figurehead
never came together, and the old wood-carver left it to his daughter,
in lieu of other property. It has not been wholly unproductive, Mrs.
Bruce fancies, for the casual passers-by, like those who came to scoff
and remained to pray, go into the shop to ask questions about the Sea
Queen and buy chops out of courtesy and gratitude.
* * * * *
On our way to the bakery, which is a daily walk with us, we always
glance at a little cot in a grassy lane just off the fore street. In
one half of this humble dwelling Mrs. Davidson keeps a slender stock
of shop-worn articles,--pins, needles, threads, sealing-wax, pencils,
and sweeties for the children, all disposed attractively upon a single
shelf behind the window.
Across the passage, close to the other window, sits day after day an
old woman of eighty-six summers who has lost her kinship with the
present and gone back to dwell forever in the past. A small table
stands in front of her rush-bottomed chair, the old family Bible rests
on it, and in front of the Bible are always four tiny dolls, with
which the trembling old fingers play from morning till night. They are
cheap, common little puppets, but she robes and disrobes them with
tenderest care. They are put to bed upon the Bible, take their walks
along its time-worn pages, are married on it, buried on it, and the
direst punishment they ever receive is to be removed from its sacred
covers and temporarily hidden beneath the dear old soul's black alpaca
apron. She is quite happy with her treasures on week days; but on
Sundays--alas and alas! the poor old dame sits in her lonely chair
with the furtive tears dropping on her wrinkled cheeks, for it is a
God-fearing household, and it is neither lawful nor seemly to play
with dolls on the Sawbath!
* * * * *
Mrs. Nicolson is the presiding genius of the bakery; she is more--she
is the bakery itself. A Mr. Nicolson there is, and he is known to be
the baker, but he dwells in the regions below the shop and only issues
at rare intervals, beneath the friendly shelter of a huge tin tray
filled with scones and baps.
If you saw Mrs. Nicolson's kitchen with the firelight gleaming on its
bright copper, its polished candlesticks, and its snowy floor, you
would think her an admirable housewife, but you would get no clue to
those shrewd and masterful traits of character which reveal themselves
chiefly behind the counter.
Miss Grieve had purchased of Mrs. Nicolson a quarter section of very
appetizing ginger cake to eat with our afternoon tea, and I stopped in
to buy more. She showed me a large, round loaf for two shillings.
"No," I objected, "I cannot use a whole loaf, thank you. We eat very
little at a time and like it perfectly fresh. I wish a small piece
such as my maid bought the other day."
Then ensued a discourse which I cannot render in the vernacular,
more's the pity, though I understood it all too well for my comfort.
The substance of it was this: that she couldna and wouldna tak' it in
hand to give me a quarter section of cake when the other three
quarters might gae dry in the bakery; that the reason she sold the
small piece on the former occasion was that her daughter, her
son-in-law, and their three children came from Ballahoolish to visit
her, and she gave them a high tea with no expense spared; that at this
function they devoured three fourths of a ginger cake, and just as she
was mournfully regarding the remainder my servant came in and took it
off her hands; that she had kept a bakery for thirty years and her
mother before her, and never had a two-shilling ginger cake been sold
in pieces before, nor was it likely ever to occur again; that if I,
under Providence so to speak, had been the fortunate gainer by the
transaction, why not eat my six-pennyworth in solemn gratitude once
for all, and not expect a like miracle to happen the next week? And
finally, that two-shilling ginger cakes were, in the very nature of
things, designed for large families; and it was the part of wisdom for
small families to fix their affections on something else, for she
couldna and wouldna tak' it in hand to cut a rare and expensive
article for a small customer.
The torrent of logic was over, and I said humbly that I would take the
whole loaf.
"Verra weel, mam," she responded more affably, "thank you kindly; no,
I couldna tak' it in hand to sell six pennyworth of that ginger cake
and let one and sixpence worth gae dry in the bakery--A beautiful day,
mam! Won'erful blest in weather ye are! Let me open your umbrella for
you, mam!"
* * * * *
David Robb is the weaver of Pettybaw. All day long he sits at his
old-fashioned hand-loom, which, like the fruit of his toil and the
dear old graybeard himself, belongs to a day that is past and gone.
He might have work enough to keep an apprentice busy, but where would
he find a lad sufficiently behind the times to learn a humble trade
now banished to the limbo of superseded, almost forgotten things?
His home is but a poor place, but the rough room in which he works is
big enough to hold a deal of sweet content. It is cheery enough, too,
to attract the Pettybaw weans, who steal in on wet days and sit on the
floor playing with the thrums, or with bits of colored ravelings.
Sometimes when they have proved themselves wise and prudent little
virgins, they are even allowed to touch the hanks of pink and yellow
and blue yarn that lie in rainbow-hued confusion on the long deal
table.
All this time the "heddles" go up and down, up and down, with their
ceaseless clatter, and David throws the shuttle back and forth as he
weaves his old-fashioned winseys.
We have grown to be good friends, David and I, and I have been
permitted the signal honor of painting him at his work.
The loom stands by an eastern window, and the rare Pettybaw sunshine
filters through the branches of a tree, shines upon the dusty
window-panes, and throws a halo round David's head that he well
deserves and little suspects. In my foreground sit Meg and Jean and
Elspeth playing with thrums and wearing the fruit of David's loom in
their gingham frocks. David himself sits on his wooden bench behind
the maze of cords that form the "loom harness."
The snows of seventy winters powder his hair and beard. His spectacles
are often pushed back on his kindly brow, but no glass could wholly
obscure the clear integrity and steadfast purity of his eyes; and as
for his smile I have not the art to paint that! It holds in solution
so many sweet though humble virtues of patience, temperance,
self-denial, honest endeavor, that my brush falters in the attempt to
fix the radiant whole upon the canvas. Fashions come and go, modern
improvements transform the arts and trades, manual skill gives way to
the cunning of the machine, but old David Robb, after more than fifty
years of toil, still sits at his hand-loom and weaves his winseys for
the Pettybaw bairnies.
David has small book-learning, so he tells me; and indeed he had need
to tell me, for I should never have discovered it myself,--one misses
it so little when the larger things are all present!
A certain summer visitor in Pettybaw (a compatriot of ours, by the
way) bought a quantity of David's orange-colored winsey, and finding
that it wore like iron, wished to order more. She used the word
"reproduce" in her telegram, as there was one pattern and one color
she specially liked. Perhaps the context was not illuminating, but at
any rate the word "reproduce" was not in David's vocabulary, and
putting back his spectacles he told me his difficulty in deciphering
the exact meaning of his fine-lady patron. He called at the Free kirk
manse,--the meenister was no at hame; then to the library,--it was
closed; then to the Established manse,--the meenister was awa'. At
last he obtained a glance at the schoolmaster's dictionary, and
turning to "reproduce" found that it meant "_naught but mak' ower
again;_"--and with an amused smile at the bedevilments of language he
turned once more to his loom and I to my canvas.
Notwithstanding his unfamiliarity with lang-nebbit words, David has
absorbed a deal of wisdom in his quiet life; though so far as I can
see, his only books have been the green tree outside his window, a
glimpse of the distant ocean, and the toil of his hands.
But I sometimes question if as many scholars are not made as marred in
this wise, for,--to the seeing eye,--the waving leaf and the far sea,
the daily task, one's own heart-beats, and one's neighbor's,--these
teach us in good time to interpret Nature's secrets, and man's, and
God's as well.
XX
"The knights they harpit in their bow'r,
The ladyes sew'd and sang;
The mirth that was in that chamber
Through all the place it rang."
_Rose the Red and White Lily_.
Tea at Rowardennan Castle is an impressive and a delightful
function. It is served by a ministerial-looking butler and a
just-ready-to-be-ordained footman. They both look as if they had
been nourished on the Thirty-Nine Articles, but they know their
business as well as if they had been trained in heathen
lands,--which is saying a good deal, for everybody knows that heathen
servants wait upon one with idolatrous solicitude. However, from the
quality of the cheering beverage itself down to the thickness of the
cream, the thinness of the china, the crispness of the toast, and the
plummyness of the cake, tea at Rowardennan Castle is perfect in every
detail.
The scones are of unusual lightness, also. I should think they would
scarcely weigh more than four, perhaps even five, to a pound; but I am
aware that the casual traveler, who eats only at hotels, and never has
the privilege of entering feudal castles, will be slow to believe this
estimate, particularly just after breakfast.
Salemina always describes a Scotch scone as an aspiring but
unsuccessful soda biscuit of the New England sort. Stevenson, in
writing of that dense black substance, inimical to life, called Scotch
bun, says that the patriotism that leads a Scotsman to eat it will
hardly desert him in any emergency. Salemina thinks that the scone
should be bracketed with the bun (in description, of course, never in
the human stomach), and says that, as a matter of fact, "th'
unconquer'd Scot" of old was not only clad in a shirt of mail, but
well fortified within when he went forth to warfare after a meal of
oatmeal and scones. She insists that the spear which would pierce the
shirt of mail would be turned aside and blunted by the ordinary scone
of commerce; but what signifies the opinion of a woman who eats sugar
on her porridge?
Considering the air of liberal hospitality that hangs about the castle
tea-table, I wonder that our friends do not oftener avail themselves
of its privileges and allow us to do so; but on all dark, foggy, or
inclement days, or whenever they tire of the sands, everybody persists
in taking tea at Bide-a-Wee Cottage.
We buy our tea of the Pettybaw grocer, some of our cups are cracked,
the teapot is of earthenware, Miss Grieve disapproves of all social
tea-fuddles and shows it plainly when she brings in the tray, and the
room is so small that some of us overflow into the hall or the garden;
it matters not; there is some fatal charm in our humble hospitality.
At four o'clock one of us is obliged to be, like Sister Anne, on the
housetop; and if company approaches, she must descend and speed to the
plumber's for sixpenny worth extra of cream. In most well-ordered
British households Miss Grieve would be requested to do this speeding,
but both her mind and her body move too slowly for such domestic
crises; and then, too, her temper has to be kept as unruffled as
possible, so that she will cut the bread and butter thin. This she
generally does if she has not been "fair doun-hadden wi' wark;" but
the washing of her own spinster cup and plate, together with the
incident sighs and groans, occupies her till so late an hour that she
is not always dressed for callers.
Willie and I were reading "The Lady of the Lake," the other day, in
the back garden, surrounded by the verdant leafage of our own
kail-yard. It is a pretty spot when the sun shines, a trifle domestic
in its air, perhaps, but restful: Miss Grieve's dish-towels and aprons
drying on the currant bushes, the cat playing with a mutton-bone or a
fishtail on the grass, and the little birds perching on the rims of
our wash-boiler and water-buckets. It can be reached only by way of
the kitchen, which somewhat lessens its value as a pleasure-ground or
a rustic retreat, but Willie and I retire there now and then for a
quiet chat.
On this particular occasion Willie was declaiming the exciting verses
where FitzJames and Murdoch are crossing the stream
"That joins Loch Katrine to Achray,"
where the crazed Blanche of Devan first appears:--
"All in the Trosachs' glen was still,
Noontide was sleeping on the hill:
Sudden his guide whoop'd loud and high--
'Murdoch! was that a signal cry?'"
"It was indeed," said Francesca, appearing suddenly at an upper window
overhanging the garden. "Pardon this intrusion, but the castle people
are here," she continued in what is known as a stage whisper,--that
is, one that can be easily heard by a thousand persons,--"the castle
people and the ladies from Pettybaw House; and Mr. Macdonald is coming
down the loaning; but Calamity Jane is making her toilette in the
kitchen, and you cannot take Mr. Beresford through into the
sitting-room at present. She says this hoose has so few conveniences
that it's 'fair sickenin'.'"
"How long will she be?" queried Mr. Beresford anxiously, putting "The
Lady of the Lake" in his pocket, and pacing up and down between the
rows of cabbages.
"She has just begun. Whatever you do, don't unsettle her temper, for
she will have to prepare for eight to-day. I will send Mr. Macdonald
and Miss Macrae to the bakery for gingerbread, to gain time, and
possibly I can think of a way to rescue you. If I can't, are you
tolerably comfortable? Perhaps Miss Grieve won't mind Penelope, and
she can come through the kitchen any time and join us; but naturally
you don't want to be separated, that's the worst of being engaged. Of
course I can lower your tea in a tin bucket, and if it should rain I
can throw out umbrellas. Would you like your golf-cape, Pen?
'Won'erful blest in weather ye are, mam!' The situation is not so bad
as it might be," she added consolingly, "because in case Miss Grieve's
toilette should last longer than usual, your wedding need not be
indefinitely postponed, for Mr. Macdonald can marry you from this
window."
Here she disappeared, and we had scarcely time to take in the full
humor of the affair before Robin Anstruther's laughing eyes appeared
over the top of the high brick wall that protects our garden on three
sides.
"Do not shoot," said he. "I am not come to steal the fruit, but to
succor humanity in distress. Miss Monroe insisted that I should borrow
the inn ladder. She thought a rescue would be much more romantic than
waiting for Miss Grieve. Everybody is coming out to witness it, at
least all your guests,--there are no strangers present,--and Miss
Monroe is already collecting sixpence a head for the entertainment, to
be given, she says, to Mr. Macdonald's sustentation fund."
He was now astride of the wall, and speedily lifted the ladder to our
side, where it leaned comfortably against the stout branches of the
draper's peach vine. Willie ran nimbly up the ladder and bestrode the
wall. I followed, first standing, and then decorously sitting down on
the top of it. Mr. Anstruther pulled up the ladder, and replaced it on
the side of liberty; then he descended, then Willie, and I last of
all, amidst the acclamations of the on-lookers, a select company of
six or eight persons.
When Miss Grieve formally entered the sitting-room bearing the
tea-tray, she was buskit braw in black stuff gown, clean apron, and
fresh cap trimmed with purple ribbons, under which her white locks
were neatly dressed.
She deplored the coolness of the tea, but accounted for it to me in an
aside by the sickening quality of Mrs. Sinkler's coals and Mr.
Macbrose's kindling-wood, to say nothing of the insulting draft in the
draper's range. When she left the room, I suppose she was unable to
explain the peals of laughter that rang through our circumscribed
halls.
Lady Ardmore insists that the rescue was the most unique episode she
ever witnessed, and says that she never understood America until she
made our acquaintance. I persuaded her that this was fallacious
reasoning; that while she might understand us by knowing America, she
could not possibly reverse this mental operation and be sure of the
result. The ladies of Pettybaw House said that the occurrence was as
Fifish as anything that ever happened in Fife. The kingdom of Fife is
noted, it seems, for its "doocots [dovecotes] and its daft lairds,"
and to be eccentric and Fifish are one and the same thing. Thereupon
Francesca told Mr. Macdonald a story she heard in Edinburgh, to the
effect that when a certain committee or council was quarreling as to
which of certain Fifeshire towns should be the seat of a projected
lunatic asylum, a new resident arose and suggested that the building
of a wall round the kingdom of Fife would solve the difficulty, settle
all disputes, and give sufficient room for the lunatics to exercise
properly.
This is the sort of tale that a native can tell with a genial chuckle,
but it comes with poor grace from an American lady sojourning in Fife.
Francesca does not mind this, however, as she is at present avenging
fresh insults to her own beloved country.
XXI
"With mimic din of stroke and ward
The broadsword upon target jarr'd."
_The Lady of the Lake_.
Robin Anstruther was telling stories at the tea-table.