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appearance, and with the king’s money in his pocket. The grief and
agony of Jeanie, and of her affectionate parents, were past all
description; and the consideration of her rashness and imprudence
having been the occasion of so much distress to herself and others,
rendered her almost desperate.
Henry was not long in the hands of the drill sergeant till he became
nearly as penitent and full of regrets as his lovely young wife, and he
willingly would, had he been permitted, have returned to a faithful
discharge of the duties of a husband; but the country was at that time
in too great need of men such as Henry, to part with him either for
money or interest. When he began to reap the bitter fruits of his own
folly, his affection for Jeanie, if it ever deserved so sacred a name,
returned with redoubled intensity; and that object, for the
abandonment of which he had plunged himself into the hardships of
which he complained, he thought he could not now live without. He
was shortly to be marched off to his regiment, and poor Jeanie,
whose attachment remained unshaken amidst the severe treatment
she had suffered, determined to follow him through all the casualties
of the military life; and at any rate preferred hardship to the disgrace
which she thought she had brought upon herself by her own
imprudence. She had at this time been a mother for little more than
two months; but even this could not change her resolution to follow
the father of her child, exposed as she must be to all the privations
and hardships of the soldier’s wife. She saw her father and mother on
the morning of her departure, but neither she nor they were able to
exchange words, so full were their hearts; save that the old man said,
“God help and bless you, Jeanie!” Scarcely a dry eye was to be seen in
the village that morning, and a crowd of youths, amidst silent
dejection, saw her far on her way, carrying her baby and her bundle
by turns. The toils through which she passed in following her
husband were too many and too severe to be here related. He was
ultimately one of those who assisted to decide the dreadful conflict at
Waterloo, and received a severe wound when the day was just about
won. In a foreign hospital, though he suffered much, he at length
recovered; but upon returning home, his wounds broke forth afresh,
and at last carried him off. Jeanie was now left quite unfriended. She
had seen her two eldest children laid in the dust, the one in a distant
clime, and the other, though on British soil, yet far from the tomb of
her fathers. She still had three surviving, and her parents being gone
to their long home, her only resource at the time I met her was
dependence on public charity.—“The Athenæum,”—Glasgow
University Annual, 1830.
 THE VILLAGERS OF AUCHINCRAIG.

By Daniel Gorrie.

In one of the eastern counties of Scotland, there is a pleasant

secluded valley, known by the name of Strathkirtle. It is well
cultivated, growing good grain crops, abounding in rich pasture-
land, and beautified by the water of Kirtle, which winds smoothly
along between its fertile banks, and loses itself at last in the German
Ocean. Strips and roundels of woodland, snug farm steadings, and
the sheltering hills on either side, impart an air of peace and an
aspect of comfort to this secluded Scottish strath, such as may rarely
be witnessed in other countries. Spring nurses there her sweetest
wild-flowers, on the meadows, in the woods, and by the water-
courses; summer comes early with choirs of singing-birds, and the
voice of the cuckoo; autumn adorns the fields with the mellowest
beauty, and touches the green leaves into gold; and winter ever
spares some gladsome relics of the sister seasons, to cheer the hearts
of the inhabitants at Strathkirtle.
In the centre of the valley, and close beside the stream, there
formerly stood the ancient village of Auchincraig; but the progress of
improvement has, I am told, almost swept its last vestiges away. It
was, without exception, the oddest, old-fashioned place in which I
ever resided for any length of time. The dwelling-houses were of all
shapes and sizes, and they had been built, whether solitary, in rows,
or in batches, in utter contempt of all order and regularity. One
might almost have imagined that they had fallen down in dire
confusion from the clouds, and been allowed to stand peaceably
where they fell. Some had their gables to the street, some were
planted back to back, some frowned front to front. The roofs of not a
few rose in ridges like the back of a dromedary, while the appearance
of others betokened a perilous collapse and sudden downfall.
Auchincraig could boast of styles of architecture unknown to Grecian
and Roman fame. The primitive builders had not been particular
regarding the situation of the doors, and evidently considered
windows as useless breaks in the walls. Houses two storeys high,
with weather-worn and weather-stained slate roofs, stood beside
humbler dwellings, low and long, and covered with thatch. The
parish church was situated in the burial ground at the east end of the
village. It was an old edifice, with ivy-mantled spire, which seemed
ready to sink down and mingle with the dust of the many generations
who slept around. Jackdaws congregated on its summit, and
swallows, unmolested, built their nests in all the windows of the
hoary pile. The parish manse, which appeared scarcely less ancient
than the church, stood about a stone’s cast from the place of graves.
Primeval trees hung their foliage over it in summer, shading its roof
and windows from the sunrays, and groaned mournfully throughout
all their bare bulk when the bitter blast of winter swept over the
exposed churchyard. A beechen hedge encircled the manse and the
garden attached. The residence of the minister was by far the
pleasantest abode in Auchincraig.
Queer and old-fashioned as the village was, it was far surpassed in
these respects by the villagers. I could scarcely have believed that it
was possible to find so many odd characters and strange mortals
collected together in one locality. Nothing astonished me more than
the number of old people, male and female, who, “daunered” about
the village streets, or sat dozing on three-legged stools at the doors of
their dwellings. It seemed as if the promise, “Thou shalt live long
upon the land,” had been specially vouchsafed to them. The old men
wore knee-breeches, home-made stockings, blue coats with metal
buttons, and red Kilmarnocks; while the old women looked the very
picture of sedate, sagacious, and decent eld, with their white coifs
and black ribbons, and bone spectacles bestriding their attenuated
noses. The village children had an “auld-farrant” appearance; and
the young men and women, whose principal employment was
weaving and spinning, partook somewhat of the gravity of their
elders with whom they associated so much. It was only at such festive
seasons as Hallowe’en, Hansel Monday, and the annual summer
Fair, that the natural hilarity of youth displayed itself in any
remarkable degree.
 One of the odd characters of this venerable village was the minister
himself. He belonged to that quaint, homely class of Scottish rural
pastors, the last remnants of which have now altogether vanished. A
strange, eccentric old man was the Rev. Thomas Watson—more
generally and familiarly known by the name of “Tammy”—parish
minister of Auchincraig. He was a grayhaired man, but stout of body
and ruddy of countenance, hale and hearty as an old farmer, and
fond of his own creature comfort, while he imparted to others
spiritual consolation. He was generally attired, at home and abroad,
in a broad-brimmed hat, knee breeches, and a loose coat, cut in the
shape of a jockey’s jacket. He had a habit of screwing his face and
shrugging his shoulders, both in the pulpit and out of it, when
anything unpleasant occurred. It was amusing to see him engaged in
conversation with one of his aged parishioners on the streets of the
village. He applied vigorously to his snuff-box, and a hearty slap on
the shoulder of his auditor was the invariable prelude to a humorous
remark. One day, while he was thus enjoying a “twa-handed crack”
with an aged member of his congregation, he administered a heavier
slap than was desirable, upon which the parishioner exclaimed, with
more familiarity than reverence, “Tammy, Tammy! my banes are no
made o’ brass—dinna hit sae sair!” Tammy, notwithstanding his
slapping propensities, was a great favourite amongst the people, and
I have heard the villagers repeating with great glee some of his witty
remarks, and telling anecdotes regarding his eccentricities. He
always addressed the people in broad Scotch from the pulpit. Indeed
it is more than probable that they would have accused him of
preaching heresy if he had ever attempted English. He felt himself as
much at home, and said as homely things, in the church and before
the congregation, as when sitting in social converse beside the manse
hearth. Several instances of this I distinctly remember. One Sabbath
forenoon, his own servant-girl entered the church rather late—in
fact, the first psalm had been sung, and the Rev. Thomas was in the
midst of his lengthy opening prayer. Janet, flurried no doubt by
disturbing the devotions of the congregation, omitted to shut the
door behind her, and a breeze blew up the passage and waved the
gray locks of the minister. This was more than the reverend
gentleman could endure. He opened his eyes, saw the culprit, and
said with his own broad peculiar accent, “Janet, woman, Janet! can
ye no steek the door ahint ye, an’ keep the wund oot!” Ludicrous as
this remark might have appeared in the circumstances to a stranger,
it was listened to by his hearers as devoutly as if it had been an
ordinary part of the service.
On another occasion “Tammy” was holding an evening diet of
worship in the church. This, it must be confessed, was with him a
rare event indeed. It was the winter season, and, at the close of the
first devotional exercise, the candles were emitting a light faint, and
feeble as that of the waning crescent-moon. “Tammy” took up the
psalmbook and adjusted his spectacles, but it was of no avail. The
solitary “dips” at each side of the pulpit showed long wicks but little
flame. The minister fumbled about for a time, but could not find the
object of his search. At last, screwing his face, and shrugging his
shoulders, he exclaimed, addressing the beadle (who was also the
grave-digger), “Pate, I say, Pate! what’s come ower ye?—whaur’s the
snuffers, man?”
Numerous anecdotes of a similar kind are recorded of the eccentric
divine of Auchincraig. Once, however, on a baptismal occasion in the
church, he committed what was regarded as a sacrilegious act by
many of his parishioners. It set the tongues of all the mothers and
grandmothers a-wagging for a month, and “Tammy” narrowly
escaped a presbyterial investigation. The affair was innocent enough,
allowing a margin for oddity of character, and he would, in all
probability, have come off triumphant from a trial, unless the
members of the presbytery had been rigid disciplinarians. The
circumstances of the case may briefly be told. At the conclusion of
the forenoon’s discourse, a child was brought up for baptism. The
father received the customary exhortations and took his vows, and
“Tammy” had just folded up his sleeve preparatory to sprinkling the
baptismal water on the infant’s face, when he found to his surprise
that Peter, otherwise Pate, the beadle, had stinted somewhat the
necessary supply of liquid, perhaps in deference to the wishes of the
child’s mother. The eccentric minister had conscientious objections
at performing the sacred rite in a perfunctory manner, and he
accordingly lifted the large pewter basin from its place, much to the
amazement of the congregation, and sprinkled the whole contents to
the last drop over the face and white attire of the squalling babe! He
then coolly continued the service, in his own peculiar style, as if
nothing extraordinary had occurred.
 The Reverend Thomas Watson made himself at home wherever he
was. When breakfasting with any of his parishioners, or in the
neighbouring manses of brother clergymen, he invariably took
possession of the largest egg, giving as his excuse and speaking from
his experience, that “the biggest were aye the maist caller!” He was
very fond of porter, and could drink as much toddy as any laird in all
Strathkirtle, without showing the slightest symptoms that he had
imbibed more than was good for the health of his body and brain.
“Tammy,” it must be confessed, with all his good qualities, was
rather lazy and self indulgent. To have spent more than an hour or
two in the preparation of a discourse he would have regarded as a
culpable waste of precious time. A clergyman in the neighbourhood
once narrated to me a ludicrous instance of the manner in which the
Auchincraig minister rolled the burden of duty upon the shoulders of
others, and managed to escape himself.
“Tammy,” on a certain occasion, was assisting at the dispensation
of the sacrament in another part of the county. The good cheer
provided for clergymen in the manses at communion seasons he
relished with infinite zest, and he generally contrived to coax the
younger “hands” into undertaking a large share of his allotted
spiritual work. When he could not succeed by coaxing, he adopted
more effective means. On the special occasion referred to, he had
taken as little part as he possibly could in the Saturday and Sunday
services. It was his duty on Monday to preach one of two sermons;
but that was with him the great day of the feast; a good winding-up
dinner was expected in the afternoon, and he felt little inclination for
ministerial work. Accordingly, as soon as breakfast was finished, and
an hour before the commencement of public worship, he
mysteriously disappeared. When the bell began to toll, the Rev.
Thomas was searched for through every room of the house, and in
every nook of the manse garden, but he could not be discovered, and
another clergyman present was compelled, at a moment’s notice, to
undertake the duty of the renegade. Meanwhile, “Tammy” was
stretched at full length in an adjoining corn-field, quietly sunning
himself, with much self-complacent composure, and listening to the
voice of psalms floating upwards to the summer heavens from the
lips of the assembled worshippers. He did not leave his lair until the
guests were assembled for dinner, and then he returned to the
manse, and heartily thanked the “dear brother” who had officiated in
his stead. His ready wit, his contagious laugh, his fund of racy
anecdotes, would doubtless be regarded by the company as some
compensation for the sin he had committed in failing to discharge his
ministerial duty. Many years have elapsed since old Tammy Watson
was gathered to his fathers; and of the ancient kirk of Auchincraig in
which he preached not one stone now stands upon another.
Requiescat in pace!
The parish dominie was another of the eccentric characters in the
village. He inhabited a house that had once seen better days, and he
appeared also to have seen them himself. He was a tall, thin, silent,
swarthy man, past middle age, abstemious and even miserly in his
habits. Dominie Dawson was a bachelor, and few people ever crossed
his threshold. He disliked old “Tammy,” who took a malicious
pleasure in plaguing and bantering him upon the spareness of his
body. Never were two men, occupying the highest posts in a parish,
more utterly opposed to each other in appearance, tastes, and habits.
“Tammy” was always ready with his joke; dominie Dawson had never
even perpetrated a pun all his life. “Tammy” laughed immoderately
when anything tickled his fancy; dominie Dawson was seldom seen
to relax his grim countenance by a smile. Some men seem to have all
things in common, but these two had absolutely nothing. The
dominie never dined at the manse, and the minister never supped
with the dominie. Still there was room in the parish for them both,
and each held on the tenor of his way, independent of the other. The
dominie, it could not be denied, was by far a more learned man than
the minister. He was a capital linguist, as had been proved on more
than one occasion, although his knowledge of languages was of little
practical avail in the village of Auchincraig. He was also an
enthusiastic naturalist. He returned from solitary rambles among the
woods, and along the banks of the Kirtle, with his hat full of wild
flowers and “weeds of glorious feature.” The old wives of the village
used to say, “the man mun be crazed, for he’s aye houkin’ among
divots!” On Saturday afternoons he sent bands of the school children
away in search of beetles, moths, butterflies, and all varieties of
insects; and these, after much study and careful examination, he
pinned carefully on squares of pasteboard. Dominie Dawson was, in
fact, an unrecognised genius. He seemed quite out of place in that
secluded village, and yet it was almost impossible that he could have
existed anywhere else. He was neither very much beloved, nor
particularly disliked by his scholars. He flourished the birch pretty
vigorously at times, and it was universally allowed that he made an
excellent teacher. He opened his school each day with a prayer,
which he had repeated so often that he could think on other matters
during the time of its delivery. He always kept his eyes wide open
when engaged in the act of devotion, watching intently the behaviour
of his scholars, and no sooner was the prayer finished than he
proceeded to apply the birchen rod as a corrective to misconduct,
and an incitement to devotional feeling. “Tammy,” alluding to this
circumstance, said to him one day—“Skelpin’ may mak gude
scholars, dominie, but it’s sure to mak bad Christians.” After school-
hours, the dominie either kept within doors, or walked forth alone.
He had not a single companion in the whole village, nor did he
cultivate any one’s society. He returned a salutation with civility, but
appeared to have no desire for further intercourse. He was still
parish teacher when I left the village; but it is more than probable
that the loneliness of his life has now merged into the solitude of the
grave.
After the minister and dominie, the village crier must not be
forgotten. He used a large hand-bell instead of the kettle-drum which
is employed in most country places to herald important public
announcements. “Pob Jamie” was the name by which the bellman, as
he was called, was generally known throughout the district. A
squalid, ragged, cadaverous, miserable-looking object he was. He
wore a hat “which was not all a hat,” part of the rim being gone, and
the rain and sunshine finding a free passage through its rents of ruin.
A long gaberlunzie’s gaberdine, formed, like Joseph’s coat, of many
colours, and adorned with many streamers, descended from his neck
to his heels. His feet were strapped over the soles of old shoes that
served the purpose of sandals. Thus arrayed, he shuffled with his bell
through the streets of Auchincraig, like the presiding genius of the
place. It was no use attempting to clothe him in better attire. If he
had been presented over night with a royal mantle, he would have
appeared at his vocation next day in his many-coloured and tattered
gaberdine. “Pob Jamie” was “cracked,” and public pity alone kept
him in his responsible office. It was one of the most ludicrous sights
in the world to see him actively engaged in the discharge of his duty,
for which he seemed to think he had special calling. After tingling his
bell for a time, he planted his staff behind him, and leant upon it in a
half-sitting posture, and then drawing a long breath, commenced
thus, in drawling tones, to give the world the benefit of his
announcement:—“Go-od faa-aat bee-eef to be so-old at Mustruss
Ma-act-avushes sho-op at sa-axpence the pund.” Poor Pob made a
sad mess of long roup-bills and documents of a similar kind. The
villagers, accustomed to his voice and manner, could make some
meaning out of his words; but to strangers it sounded like a language
never spoken before on earth since the dispersion at the Tower of
Babel. The village boys annoyed the bellman greatly by mimicking
his attitude and voice when he was in the act of “crying” through the
streets. It invariably excited his somewhat irascible temper, and he
prolonged and intensified his tones to an amusing extent. Jamie had
a withered, ill-natured, half-crazed old woman for a wife, and a
wretched cat-and-dog life they led together in their tottering hovel.
The union of these two miserable beings was a melancholy caricature
of the matrimonial alliance. They were never known to exchange a
single word of affection. In fact, they were apparently bound to each
other by mutual hatred. It was strange to think for what purpose they
had been created, or why they should exist in the world so long. One
winter day, after going his customary round, Pob fell sick, and
rapidly declined. In the course of a day or two it was apparent that he
was on the very verge of death. His old wife contemplated with
evident pleasure the prospect of his speedy dissolution, and within
five minutes of his death the half-crazed hag hissed these words into
his ear, “Dee, ye deevil, dee!”
Space would fail me to describe minutely all the oddities of
Auchincraig. There was the keeper of the post-office—a dwarfish
man, with elfin locks, and a notorious squint, who knew all the
secrets of the village, and seemed to possess the power of reading the
contents of letters without breaking the seals. There was
“burnewin,”—a man of huge stature and gigantic strength,—whose
“smiddy” after nightfall, when the furnace blazed, was the favourite
resort of all the cockfighters, poachers, and blackguards throughout
Strathkirtle. There were the “souter” and the tailor, politicians both,
and hard drinkers to boot. Nor did the village want its due
complement of “innocents.” It had greatly more than the average
number; and throughout all my wanderings, and during all my
residences in towns and remote villages, I have never met so many
odd characters gathered together as in old Auchincraig. It seemed to
me strange that in a valley so beautiful,—where nature is prodigal of
her richest gifts, where flowers bloom, birds sing, and corn-fields
rustle in the summer breeze,—humanity should have appeared in
such strange shapes and eccentric manifestations. But the old village
is gone, and the old villagers have departed, and the sun now shines
upon new homes and fresher hearts.
 PERLING JOAN.

By John Gibson Lockhart, LL.D.

Our Laird was a very young man when his father died, and he gaed
awa to France, and Italy, and Flanders, and Germany, immediately,
and we saw naething o’ him for three years; and my brother, John
Baird, went wi’ him as his own body-servant. When that time was
gane by, our Johnny cam hame and tauld us that Sir Claud wad be
here the next day, an’ that he was bringing hame a foreign lady wi’
him—but they were not married. This news was a sair heart, as ye
may suppose, to a’ that were about the house; and we were just glad
that the auld lady was dead and buried, not to hear of sic doings. But
what could we do? To be sure, the rooms were a’ put in order, and
the best chamber in the hale house was got ready for Sir Claud and
her. John tauld me, when we were alane together that night, that I
wad be surprised wi’ her beauty when she came.
But I never could have believed, till I saw her, that she was sae very
young—such a mere bairn, I may say; I’m sure she was not more than
fifteen. Such a dancing, gleesome bit bird of a lassie was never seen;
and ane could not but pity her mair than blame her for what she had
done, she was sae visibly in the daftness and light-headedness of
youth. Oh, how she sang, and played, and galloped about on the
wildest horses in the stable, as fearlessly as if she had been a man!
The house was full of fun and glee; and Sir Claud and she were both
so young and so comely, that it was enough to break ane’s very heart
to behold their thoughtlessness. She was aye sitting on his knee, wi’
her arm about his neck; and for weeks and months this love and
merriment lasted. The poor body had no airs wi’ her; she was just as
humble in her speech to the like of us, as if she had been a cottar’s
lassie. I believe there was not one of us that could help liking her, for
a’ her faults. She was a glaiket creature; but gentle and tender-
hearted as a perfect lamb, and sae bonny! I never sat eyes upon her
match. She had never any colour but black for her gown, and it was
commonly satin, and aye made in the same fashion; and a’ the
perling about her bosom, and a great gowden chain stuck full of
precious rubies and diamonds. She never put powder on her head
neither; oh proud, proud was she of her hair! I’ve often known her
comb and comb at it for an hour on end; and when it was out of the
buckle, the bonny black curls fell as low as her knee. You never saw
such a head of hair since ye were born. She was the daughter of a rich
auld Jew in Flanders, and ran awa frae the house wi’ Sir Claud, ae
night when there was a great feast gaun on,—the Passover supper, as
John thought,—and out she came by the back-door to Sir Claud,
dressed for supper wi’ a’ her braws.
Weel, this lasted for the maist feck of a year; and Perling Joan (for
that was what the servants used to ca’ her, frae the laces about her
bosom), Mrs Joan lay in and had a lassie.
Sir Claud’s auld uncle, the colonel, was come hame from America
about this time, and he wrote for the laird to gang in to Edinburgh to
see him, and he behoved to do this; and away he went ere the bairn
was mair than a fortnight auld, leaving the lady wi’ us.
I was the maist experienced body about the house, and it was me
that got chief charge of being with her in her recovery. The poor
young thing was quite changed now. Often and often did she greet
herself blind, lamenting to me about Sir Claud’s no marrying her; for
she said she did not take muckle thought about thae things afore; but
that now she had a bairn to Sir Claud, and she could not bear to look
the wee thing in the face, and think a’ body would ca’ it a bastard.
And then she said she was come of as decent folk as any lady in
Scotland, and moaned and sobbit about her auld father and her
sisters.
But the colonel, ye see, had gotten Sir Claud into the town; and we
soon began to hear reports that the colonel had been terribly angry
about Perling Joan, and threatened Sir Claud to leave every penny he
had past him, if he did not put Joan away, and marry a lady like
himself. And what wi’ fleeching, and what wi’ flyting, sae it was that
Sir Claud went away to the north wi’ the colonel, and the marriage
between him and lady Juliana was agreed upon, and everything
settled.
Everybody about the house had heard mair or less about a’ this, or
ever a word of it came her length. But at last, Sir Claud himself writes
a long letter, telling her what a’ was to be; and offering to gie her a
heap o’ siller, and send our John ower the sea wi’ her, to see her safe
back to her friends—her and her baby, if she liked best to take it with
her; but if not, the colonel was to take the bairn hame, and bring her
up a lady, away from the house here, not to breed any dispeace.
This was what our Johnny said was to be proposed; for as to the
letter itself, I saw her get it, and she read it twice ower, and flung it
into the fire before my face. She read it, whatever it was, with a
wonderful composure; but the moment after it was in the fire she
gaed clean aff into a fit, and she was out of one and into anither for
maist part of the forenoon. Oh, what a sight she was! It would have
melted the heart of stone to see her.
The first thing that brought her to herself was the sight of her
bairn. I brought it, and laid it on her knee, thinking it would do her
good if she could give it a suck; and the poor trembling thing did as I
bade her; and the moment the bairn’s mouth was at the breast, she
turned as calm as the baby itsel—the tears rapping ower her cheeks,
to be sure, but not one word more. I never heard her either greet or
sob again a’ that day.
I put her and the bairn to bed that night—but nae combing and
curling o’ the bonnie black hair did I see then. However, she seemed
very calm and composed, and I left them, and gaed to my ain bed,
which was in a little room within hers.
Next morning, the bed was found cauld and empty, and the front
door of the house standing wide open. We dragged the waters, and
sent man and horse every gate, but ne’er a trace of her could we ever
light on, till a letter came twa or three weeks after, addressed to me,
frae hersel. It was just a line or twa, to say that she was well, and
thanking me, poor thing, for having been attentive about her in her
down-lying. It was dated frae London. And she charged me to say
nothing to anybody of having received it. But this was what I could
not do; for everybody had set it down for a certain thing, that the
poor lassie had made away baith wi’ hersel and the bairn.
 I dinna weel ken whether it was owing to this or not, but Sir
Claud’s marriage was put aff for twa or three years, and he never cam
near us a’ that while. At length word came that the wedding was to be
put over directly; and painters, and upholsterers, and I know not
what all, came and turned the hale house upside down, to prepare for
my lady’s hame-coming. The only room that they never meddled wi’
was that that had been Mrs Joan’s: and no doubt they had been
ordered what to do.
Weel, the day came, and a braw sunny spring day it was, that Sir
Claud and the bride were to come hame to the Mains. The grass was
a’ new mawn about the policy, and the walks sweepit, and the cloth
laid for dinner, and everybody in their best to give them their
welcoming. John Baird came galloping up the avenue like mad, to
tell us that the coach was amaist within sight, and gar us put oursels
in order afore the ha’ steps. We were a’ standing there in our ranks,
and up came the coach rattling and driving, wi’ I dinna ken how
mony servants riding behind it; and Sir Claud lookit out at the
window, and was waving his handkerchief to us, when, just as fast as
fire ever flew frae flint, a woman in a red cloak rushed out from
among the auld shrubbery at the west end of the house, and flung
herself in among the horses’ feet, and the wheels gaed clean out ower
her breast, and crushed her dead in a single moment. She never
stirred. Poor thing! she was nae Perling Joan then. She was in rags—
perfect rags all below the bit cloak; and we found the bairn, rowed in
a checked apron, lying just behind the hedge. A braw heartsome
welcoming for a pair of young married folk!—The History of
Matthew Wald.
 JANET SMITH.

By Professor Thomas Gillespie.

Old Janet Smith lived in a cottage overshadowed by an ash-tree,

and flanked by a hawthorn, called Lasscairn,—so named, in all
probability, from a cairn of stones, almost in the centre of which this
simple habitation was placed, in which, even within the period of my
remembrance, three maiden veterans kept “rock and reel, bleezing
hearth and reeking lum.” They were uniformly mentioned in the
neighbourhood as “the lasses o’ Lasscairn,” though their united ages
might have amounted to something considerably above three-score
thrice told. Janet, however, of whom I am now speaking, had been
married in her teens, and her husband having lost his life in a lime-
quarry, she had been left with an only child, a daughter, whom, by
the help of God’s blessing, and her wee wheel, she had reared and
educated as far as the Proofs and Willison’s. This daughter having
attained to a suitable age, had been induced one fine summer
evening, whilst her mother was engaged in her evening devotion
under the shadow of the ash-tree, to take a pleasure walk with Rob
Paton, a neighbouring ploughman, but then recently enlisted, and to
share his name and his fortunes for twenty-four months to come. At
the end of this period, she found her mother nearly in the same
position in which she had left her, praying earnestly to her God to
protect, direct, and return her “bairn.” There were, however, two
bairns for the good old woman to bless, instead of one, and the young
Jessie Paton was said to be the very picture of her mother. Be that as
it may, old Janet, now a grannie, loved the bairn, forgave the mother,
and by the help of an additional wheel, which, in contradistinction to
her own, was designated “muckle,” she, and her “broken-hearted,
deserted” daughter, contrived for years to earn such a subsistence as
their very moderate wants required. At last a severe fever cut off the
mother, and left a somewhat sickly child at about nine years of age,
under the sole protection of an aged and enfeebled grandmother. It
was at this stage of old Janet’s earthly travail that, in the character of
a schoolboy, I became acquainted with her and her daughter,—for
ever after the mother’s death, the child knew her grandmother by no
other name, and under no other relation.
Janet had a particular way—still the practice in Dumfriesshire—of
dressing or preparing her meal of potatoes. They were scraped, well-
dried, salted, beetled, buttered, milked, and ultimately rumbled into
the most beautiful and palatable consistency. In short, they became
that first, and—beyond the limits of the south country—least known
of all delicacies, “champit potatoes.” As I returned often hungry and
weary from school, Janet’s pot presented itself to me, hanging in the
reek, and at a considerable elevation above the fire, as the most
tempting of all objects. In fact, Janet, knowing that my hour of
return from school was full two hours later than hers of repast, took
this method of reserving for me a full heaped spoonful of the residue
of her and her Jessie’s meal. Never whilst I live, and live by food,
shall I forget the exquisite feelings of eager delight with which that
single overloaded spoonful of beat or “champit” potatoes was
devoured. There are pleasures of sentiment and imagination of
which I have occasionally partaken, and others connected with what
is called the heart and affections; all these are beautiful and
engrossing in their way and in their season, but to a hungry
schoolboy, who has devoured his dinner “piece” ere ten o’clock a.m.,
and is returning to his home at a quarter before five, the
presentiment, the sight, and, above all, the taste and reflection
connected with the swallowing of a spoonful—and such a spoonful!—
of Janet Smith’s potatoes, is, to say nothing flighty or extravagant,
not less seasonable than exquisite. As my tongue walked slowly and
cautiously round and round the lower and upper boundaries of the
delicious load, as if loath rapidly to diminish that bulk, which the
craving stomach would have wished to have been increased had it
been tenfold, my whole soul was wrapped in Elysium; it tumbled
about, and rioted in an excess of delight—a kind of feather-bed of
downy softness. Drinking is good enough in its season, particularly
when one is thirsty; but the pleasures attendant on the satisfying of
the appetite for me!—this is assuredly the great, the master
gratification.
But Janet did not only deal in potatoes; she had likewise a cheese,
and, on pressing occasions, a bottle of beer besides. The one stood in
a kind of corner press or cupboard, whilst the other occupied a still
less dignified position beneath old Janet’s bed. To say the truth of
Janet’s cheese, it was not much beholden to the maker. It might have
been advantageously cut into bullets or marbles, such was its
hardness and solidity; but then, in those days, my teeth were good;
and, with a keen stomach and a willing mind, much may be effected
even on a “three times skimmed sky-blue!” The beer—for which I
have often adventured into the terra incognita already mentioned,
even at the price of a prostrate person and a dusty jacket—was
excellent, brisk, frothy, and nippy;—my breath still goes when I think
of it. And then Janet wore such long strings of tape, blue and red,
white and yellow, all striped and variegated like a gardener’s garter! I
shall never be such a beau again, as when my stockings on Sabbath
were ornamented with a new pair of Janet’s well-known, much-
prized, and admired garters.
It was, however, after all, on Sabbath that Janet appeared to move
in her native element. It was on Sabbath that her face brightened,
and her step became accelerated—that her spectacles were carefully
wiped with the corner of a clean neck-napkin, and her Bible was
called into early and almost uninterrupted use. It was on Sabbath
that her devotions were poured forth—both in a family and private
capacity—with an earnestness and a fervency which I have never
seen surpassed in manse or mansion, in desk or pulpit. There is,
indeed, nothing in nature so beautiful and elevating as sincere and
heartfelt, heart-warming devotion. There is a poor, frail creature,
verging on three-score and ten years, with an attendant lassie, white-
faced, and every way “shilpy” in appearance. Around them are
nothing more elevating or exciting than a few old sticks of furniture,
sooty rafters, and a smoky atmosphere. Surely imbecility has here
clothed herself in the forbidding garb of dependence and squalid
poverty! The worm that crawls into light through the dried mole-hill,
all powdered over with the dust from which it is escaping, is a fit
emblem of such an object and such a condition. But over all this let
us pour the warm and glowing radiance of genuine devotion! The
roots of that consecrated ash can bear witness to those half-
articulated breathings, which connect the weakness of man with the
power of God,—the squalidness of poverty with the radiant richness
of divine grace. Do those two hearts, which under one covering now
breathe forth their evening sacrifice in hope and reliance—do they
feel, do they acknowledge any alliance with the world’s opinions, the
world’s artificial and cruel distinctions? If there be one object more
pleasing to God and to the holy ministers of His will than another, it
is this—age uniting with youth, and youth with age, in the giving
forth into audible, if not articulate expression, the fulness of the
devout heart!
Lord W——, whose splendid residence stands about fifteen miles
distant from Lasscairn, happened to be engaged in a hunting
expedition in the neighbourhood of this humble and solitary abode,
and having separated from his attendants and companions, he
bethought himself of resting for a little under a roof, however
humble, from which he saw smoke issuing. But when he put his
thumb to the latch it would not move; and after an effort or two, he
applied first his eye, and lastly his ear, to the keyhole, to ascertain the
presence of the inhabitants. The solemn voice of fervent prayer met
his ear, uttered by a person evidently not in a kneeling, but in an
erect position; he could, in short, distinctly gather the nature and
tendency of Janet’s address to her Maker.
She was manifestly engaged in asking a blessing on her daily meal,
and was proceeding to enumerate, with the voice of thanksgiving, the
many mercies with which, under God’s good providence, she and
hers had been visited. After an extensive enumeration, she came at
last to speak of that ample provision on which she was now
imploring a blessing. In this part of her address she dwelt with
peculiar cheerfulness, as well as earnestness of tone, on that
goodness which had provided so bountifully for her, whilst many
better deserving than she were worse circumstanced. The whole
tenor of her prayer tended to impress the listener with the belief that
Janet’s board, though spread in a humble hut, must be at least amply
supplied with the necessaries of life. But what was Lord W——’s
surprise, on entrance, to find that a round oaten bannock, toasting
before a brick at a peat fire, with a basin of whey,—the gift of a kind
neighbour,—composed that ample and bountiful provision for which
this humble, but contented and pious woman expressed so much
gratitude! Lord W—— was struck with the contrast between his own
condition and feelings and those of this humble pair; and, in settling
upon Janet and her inmate £6 a-year for life, he enabled her to
accommodate herself with a new plaid and black silk hood, in which
she appeared, with her granddaughter, every Sabbath, occupying her
well-known and acknowledged position on the lowest step of the
pulpit stair, and paying the same respect to the minister in passing as
if she had been entirely dependent on her own industry and the good
will of her neighbours as formerly.