What she had been, what I should
be, these were the two great
subjects between us in my boyhood,
and while we discussed the one
we were deciding the other, though
neither of us knew it.
Before I reached my tenth year
a giant entered my native place
in the night, and we woke to
find him in possession. He transformed
it into a new town at a rate
with which we boys only could
keep up, for as fast as he built
dams we made rafts to sail in
them; he knocked down houses,
and there we were crying 'Pilly!'
among the ruins; he dug trenches,
and we jumped them; we had to
be dragged by the legs from beneath
his engines, he sunk wells, and
in we went. But though there
were never circumstances to which
boys could not adapt themselves
in half an hour, older folk are
slower in the uptake, and I am
sure they stood and gaped at
the changes so suddenly being
worked in our midst, and scarce
knew their way home now in the
dark. Where had been formerly
but the click of the shuttle
was soon the roar of 'power,'
handlooms were pushed into a
corner as a room is cleared for
a dance; every morning at half-past
five the town was wakened with
a yell, and from a chimney-stack
that rose high into our caller
air the conqueror waved for evermore
his flag of smoke. Another era
had dawned, new customs, new
fashions sprang into life, all
as lusty as if they had been
born at twenty-one; as quickly
as two people may exchange seats,
the daughter, till now but a
knitter of stockings, became
the breadwinner, he who had been
the breadwinner sat down to the
knitting of stockings: what had
been yesterday a nest of weavers
was to-day a town of girls.
I am not of those who would
fling stones at the change; it
is something, surely, that backs
are no longer prematurely bent;
you may no more look through
dim panes of glass at the aged
poor weaving tremulously for
their little bit of ground in
the cemetery. Rather are their
working years too few now, not
because they will it so but because
it is with youth that the power-looms
must be fed. Well, this teaches
them to make provision, and they
have the means as they never
had before. Not in batches are
boys now sent to college; the
half-dozen a year have dwindled
to one, doubtless because in
these days they can begin to
draw wages as they step out of
their fourteenth year. Here assuredly
there is loss, but all the losses
would be but a pebble in a sea
of gain were it not for this,
that with so many of the family,
young mothers among them, working
in the factories, home life is
not so beautiful as it was. So
much of what is great in Scotland
has sprung from the closeness
of the family ties; it is there
I sometimes fear that my country
is being struck. That we are
all being reduced to one dead
level, that character abounds
no more and life itself is less
interesting, such things I have
read, but I do not believe them.
I have even seen them given as
my reason for writing of a past
time, and in that at least there
is no truth. In our little town,
which is a sample of many, life
is as interesting, as pathetic,
as joyous as ever it was; no
group of weavers was better to
look at or think about than the
rivulet of winsome girls that
overruns our streets every time
the sluice is raised, the comedy
of summer evenings and winter
firesides is played with the
old zest and every window-blind
is the curtain of a romance.
Once the lights of a little town
are lit, who could ever hope
to tell all its story, or the
story of a single wynd in it?
And who looking at lighted windows
needs to turn to books? The reason
my books deal with the past instead
of with the life I myself have
known is simply this, that I
soon grow tired of writing tales
unless I can see a little girl,
of whom my mother has told me,
wandering confidently through
the pages. Such a grip has her
memory of her girlhood had upon
me since I was a boy of six.
Those innumerable talks with
her made her youth as vivid to
me as my own, and so much more
quaint, for, to a child, the
oddest of things, and the most
richly coloured picture-book,
is that his mother was once a
child also, and the contrast
between what she is and what
she was is perhaps the source
of all humour. My mother's father,
the one hero of her life, died
nine years before I was born,
and I remember this with bewilderment,
so familiarly does the weather-beaten
mason's figure rise before me
from the old chair on which I
was nursed and now write my books.
On the surface he is as hard
as the stone on which he chiselled,
and his face is dyed red by its
dust, he is rounded in the shoulders
and a 'hoast' hunts him ever;
sooner or later that cough must
carry him off, but until then
it shall not keep him from the
quarry, nor shall his chapped
hands, as long as they can grasp
the mell. It is a night of rain
or snow, and my mother, the little
girl in a pinafore who is already
his housekeeper, has been many
times to the door to look for
him. At last he draws nigh, hoasting.
Or I see him setting off to church,
for he was a great 'stoop' of
the Auld Licht kirk, and his
mouth is very firm now as if
there were a case of discipline
to face, but on his way home
he is bowed with pity. Perhaps
his little daughter who saw him
so stern an hour ago does not
understand why he wrestles so
long in prayer to-night, or why
when he rises from his knees
he presses her to him with unwonted
tenderness. Or he is in this
chair repeating to her his favourite
poem, 'The Cameronian's Dream,'
and at the first lines so solemnly
uttered,
'In a dream of the night I
was wafted away,'
she screams with excitement,
just as I screamed long afterwards
when she repeated them in his
voice to me. Or I watch, as from
a window, while she sets off
through the long parks to the
distant place where he is at
work, in her hand a flagon which
contains his dinner. She is singing
to herself and gleefully swinging
the flagon, she jumps the burn
and proudly measures the jump
with her eye, but she never dallies
unless she meets a baby, for
she was so fond of babies that
she must hug each one she met,
but while she hugged them she
also noted how their robes were
cut, and afterwards made paper
patterns, which she concealed
jealously, and in the fulness
of time her first robe for her
eldest born was fashioned from
one of these patterns, made when
she was in her twelfth year.
She was eight when her mother's
death made her mistress of the
house and mother to her little
brother, and from that time she
scrubbed and mended and baked
and sewed, and argued with the
flesher about the quarter pound
of beef and penny bone which
provided dinner for two days
(but if you think that this was
poverty you don't know the meaning
of the word), and she carried
the water from the pump, and
had her washing-days and her
ironings and a stocking always
on the wire for odd moments,
and gossiped like a matron with
the other women, and humoured
the men with a tolerant smile
- all these things she did as
a matter of course, leaping joyful
from bed in the morning because
there was so much to do, doing
it as thoroughly and sedately
as if the brides were already
due for a lesson, and then rushing
out in a fit of childishness
to play dumps or palaulays with
others of her age. I see her
frocks lengthening, though they
were never very short, and the
games given reluctantly up. The
horror of my boyhood was that
I knew a time would come when
I also must give up the games,
and how it was to be done I saw
not (this agony still returns
to me in dreams, when I catch
myself playing marbles, and look
on with cold displeasure); I
felt that I must continue playing
in secret, and I took this shadow
to her, when she told me her
own experience, which convinced
us both that we were very like
each other inside. She had discovered
that work is the best fun after
all, and I learned it in time,
but have my lapses, and so had
she.
I know what was her favourite
costume when she was at the age
that they make heroines of: it
was a pale blue with a pale blue
bonnet, the white ribbons of
which tied aggravatingly beneath
the chin, and when questioned
about this garb she never admitted
that she looked pretty in it,
but she did say, with blushes
too, that blue was her colour,
and then she might smile, as
at some memory, and begin to
tell us about a man who - but
it ended there with another smile
which was longer in departing.
She never said, indeed she denied
strenuously, that she had led
the men a dance, but again the
smile returned, and came between
us and full belief. Yes, she
had her little vanities; when
she got the Mizpah ring she did
carry that finger in such a way
that the most reluctant must
see. She was very particular
about her gloves, and hid her
boots so that no other should
put them on, and then she forgot
their hiding-place, and had suspicions
of the one who found them. A
good way of enraging her was
to say that her last year's bonnet
would do for this year without
alteration, or that it would
defy the face of clay to count
the number of her shawls. In
one of my books there is a mother
who is setting off with her son
for the town to which he had
been called as minister, and
she pauses on the threshold to
ask him anxiously if he thinks
her bonnet 'sets' her. A reviewer
said she acted thus, not because
she cared how she looked, but
for the sake of her son. This,
I remember, amused my mother
very much.
I have seen many weary on-dings
of snow, but the one I seem to
recollect best occurred nearly
twenty years before I was born.
It was at the time of my mother's
marriage to one who proved a
most loving as he was always
a well-loved husband, a man I
am very proud to be able to call
my father. I know not for how
many days the snow had been falling,
but a day came when the people
lost heart and would make no
more gullies through it, and
by next morning to do so was
impossible, they could not fling
the snow high enough. Its back
was against every door when Sunday
came, and none ventured out save
a valiant few, who buffeted their
way into my mother's home to
discuss her predicament, for
unless she was 'cried' in the
church that day she might not
be married for another week,
and how could she be cried with
the minister a field away and
the church buried to the waist?
For hours they talked, and at
last some men started for the
church, which was several hundred
yards distant. Three of them
found a window, and forcing a
passage through it, cried the
pair, and that is how it came
about that my father and mother
were married on the first of
March.
That would be the end, I suppose,
if it were a story, but to my
mother it was only another beginning,
and not the last. I see her bending
over the cradle of her first-born,
college for him already in her
eye (and my father not less ambitious),
and anon it is a girl who is
in the cradle, and then another
girl - already a tragic figure
to those who know the end. I
wonder if any instinct told my
mother that the great day of
her life was when she bore this
child; what I am sure of is that
from the first the child followed
her with the most wistful eyes
and saw how she needed help and
longed to rise and give it. For
of physical strength my mother
had never very much; it was her
spirit that got through the work,
and in those days she was often
so ill that the sand rained on
the doctor's window, and men
ran to and fro with leeches,
and 'she is in life, we can say
no more' was the information
for those who came knocking at
the door. 'I am sorrow to say,'
her father writes in an old letter
now before me, 'that Margaret
is in a state that she was never
so bad before in this world.
Till Wednesday night she was
in as poor a condition as you
could think of to be alive. However,
after bleeding, leeching, etc.,
the Dr. says this morning that
he is better hoped now, but at
present we can say no more but
only she is alive and in the
hands of Him in whose hands all
our lives are. I can give you
no adequate view of what my feelings
are, indeed they are a burden
too heavy for me and I cannot
describe them. I look on my right
and left hand and find no comfort,
and if it were not for the rock
that is higher than I my spirit
would utterly fall, but blessed
be His name who can comfort those
that are cast down. O for more
faith in His supporting grace
in this hour of trial.'
Then she is 'on the mend,'
she may 'thole thro'' if they
take great care of her, 'which
we will be forward to do.' The
fourth child dies when but a
few weeks old, and the next at
two years. She was her grandfather's
companion, and thus he wrote
of her death, this stern, self-educated
Auld Licht with the chapped hands:-
'I hope you
received my last in which I
spoke of Dear little
Lydia being unwell. Now with
deep sorrow I must tell you that
yesterday I assisted in laying
her dear remains in the lonely
grave. She died at 7 o'clock
on Wednesday evening, I suppose
by the time you had got the letter.
The Dr. did not think it was
croup till late on Tuesday night,
and all that Medical aid could
prescribe was done, but the Dr.
had no hope after he saw that
the croup was confirmed, and
hard indeed would the heart have
been that would not have melted
at seeing what the dear little
creature suffered all Wednesday
until the feeble frame was quite
worn out. She was quite sensible
till within 2 hours of her death,
and then she sunk quite low till
the vital spark fled, and all
medicine that she got she took
with the greatest readiness,
as if apprehensive they would
make her well. I cannot well
describe my feelings on the occasion.
I thought that the fountain-head
of my tears had now been dried
up, but I have been mistaken,
for I must confess that the briny
rivulets descended fast on my
furrowed cheeks, she was such
a winning Child, and had such
a regard for me and always came
and told me all her little things,
and as she was now speaking,
some of her little prattle was
very taking, and the lively images
of these things intrude themselves
more into my mind than they should
do, but there is allowance for
moderate grief on such occasions.
But when I am telling you of
my own grief and sorrow, I know
not what to say of the bereaved
Mother, she hath not met with
anything in this world before
that hath gone so near the quick
with her. She had no handling
of the last one as she was not
able at the time, for she only
had her once in her arms, and
her affections had not time to
be so fairly entwined around
her. I am much afraid that she
will not soon if ever get over
this trial. Although she was
weakly before, yet she was pretty
well recovered, but this hath
not only affected her mind, but
her body is so much affected
that she is not well able to
sit so long as her bed is making
and hath scarcely tasted meat
[i.e. food] since Monday night,
and till some time is elapsed
we cannot say how she may be.
There is none that is not a Parent
themselves that can fully sympathise
with one in such a state. David
is much affected also, but it
is not so well known on him,
and the younger branches of the
family are affected but it will
be only momentary. But alas in
all this vast ado, there is only
the sorrow of the world which
worketh death. O how gladdening
would it be if we were in as
great bitterness for sin as for
the loss of a first-born. O how
unfitted persons or families
is for trials who knows not the
divine art of casting all their
cares upon the Lord, and what
multitudes are there that when
earthly comforts is taken away,
may well say What have I more?
all their delight is placed in
some one thing or another in
the world, and who can blame
them for unwillingly parting
with what they esteem their chief
good? O that we were wise to
lay up treasure for the time
of need, for it is truly a solemn
affair to enter the lists with
the king of terrors. It is strange
that the living lay the things
so little to heart until they
have to engage in that war where
there is no discharge. O that
my head were waters and mine
eyes a fountain of tears that
I might weep day and night for
my own and others' stupidity
in this great matter. O for grace
to do every day work in its proper
time and to live above the tempting
cheating train of earthly things.
The rest of the family are moderately
well. I have been for some days
worse than I have been for 8
months past, but I may soon get
better. I am in the same way
I have often been in before,
but there is no security for
it always being so, for I know
that it cannot be far from the
time when I will be one of those
that once were. I have no other
news to send you, and as little
heart for them. I hope you will
take the earliest opportunity
of writing that you can, and
be particular as regards Margaret,
for she requires consolation.'
He died exactly a week after
writing this letter, but my mother
was to live for another forty-four
years. And joys of a kind never
shared in by him were to come
to her so abundantly, so long
drawn out that, strange as it
would have seemed to him to know
it, her fuller life had scarce
yet begun. And with the joys
were to come their sweet, frightened
comrades pain and grief; again
she was to be touched to the
quick, again and again to be
so ill that 'she is in life,
we can say no more,' but still
she had attendants very 'forward'
to help her, some of them unborn
in her father's time.
She told me everything, and
so my memories of our little
red town are coloured by her
memories. I knew it as it had
been for generations, and suddenly
I saw it change, and the transformation
could not fail to strike a boy,
for these first years are the
most impressionable (nothing
that happens after we are twelve
matters very much); they are
also the most vivid years when
we look back, and more vivid
the farther we have to look,
until, at the end, what lies
between bends like a hoop, and
the extremes meet. But though
the new town is to me a glass
through which I look at the old,
the people I see passing up and
down these wynds, sitting, nightcapped,
on their barrow-shafts, hobbling
in their blacks to church on
Sunday, are less those I saw
in my childhood than their fathers
and mothers who did these things
in the same way when my mother
was young. I cannot picture the
place without seeing her, as
a little girl, come to the door
of a certain house and beat her
bass against the gav'le-end,
or there is a wedding to-night,
and the carriage with the white-eared
horse is sent for a maiden in
pale blue, whose bonnet-strings
tie beneath the chin.
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