Scotch Stories, or the chronicles of Keckleton

Front matter

A Book that should be in every Home. In Paper Boards, Price 2s. ; or in Cloth, Price 2s. 6d. THE CHILD, AND HOW TO NURSE IT; OR, THE MANAGEMENT OF CHILDREN AND THEIR DISEASES. By Dr ALEXANDER MILNE, Edinburgh. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. ' Dr Milne not only describes how the Child should be managed from the hour of birth, but he notes the distinctive characteristics of all the ailments to which Children are liable, and gives instruction as to their proper treatment. A great many works have been pub lished of late years, but there is certainly not one which is more likely to be of use to inexperienced or conscientious parents. ' — Scotsman. ' This little work will be found to contain copious details on the management of infancy, expressed in language singularly free from technicalities.' — Courant. ' The instruction given will be found valuable in cases of emergency, besides being eminently useful to all having the care of little ones.

We commend the volume.' — Daily Review. 'We heartily recommend the careful study of Dr Milne's invaluable work.'— Ladies' Own yournal. 1 To emigrants and others at a distance from medical aid, we believe the book will be a "present help in time of trouble."' — North Metropolitan. 'The result of twenty years' practical experience of Children's troubles is embodied in this little work.'— Sheffield Post. EXTRACT FROM

Preface

. ' The object of this book is to give plain and practical hints and directions in regard to the rearing of Children, and an accurate account of their Diseases, showing their causes, nature, marks by which they are known, and treatment — preventive and curative. It is not at all meant to supersede the properly-qualified medical man but only to help to avert and arrest complications and dangers when he cannot be present at an early period of the disease. The Author has been often asked to write such a book, but has not undertaken the task until possessed of twenty years' practical experience. During that period it has been his lot to attend many thousands of Children, and to witness — alas ! too often pangs and pains, sufferings and death, which might have been avoided had a little knowledge been present, or, rather, he might say, had the grossest ignorance not prevailed.' E. & S. LIVINGSTONE, MEDICAL PUBLISHERS, 15 TEVIOT PLACE, EDINBURGH.

SCOTCH STORIES OR ®i}£ CKjrsltttrks of iurkktnn DY DAVID GRANT, Author of "Lays and Legends of the North" "Metrical Tales" etc. E. & S. LIVINGSTONE, 15 TEVIOT PLACE LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO. 1888. PRINTED BY E. & S. LIVINGSTONE MELBOURNE PLACE EDINBURGH. LONDON; SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO. ; HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO. GLASGOW: J. MENZIES AND CO. ABERDEEN: D. WYLLIE AND SON. DUNDEE: MACGREGOR. INVERNESS I MACKENZIE. PAISLEY! ALEX. GARDNER. AUSTRALIA. MELBOURNE: GEO. ROBERTSON AND CO. SYDNEY: DAVID ANGUS. PAGE CONTENTS. Uncle Peter's Legacy. — The Artist's Story, . . 1 Widow Will's AVooer, 9 The Resurrectionists. — The Sexton's Story, . . 27 "Death to the Head that Wears no Hair!" — The Inspector's Story, 53 Councillor Ettershank 's Eise to Civic Honours, . 62 Wee Johnny Martin. — The Schoolmaster's Story, . 81 Voting Against the Laird. — The Factor's Story, . 108 The Capture of the Enemy's Colours: or, A Struggle with a Madman. — The Student's Story, . .116 Mrs Cooper of Muckle Cairns on Her Daughter's AVooers, 124 The Rose of Keckleton, Wije Artist's aY mother had a half-brother about thirty years her senior, who was called, by those who honoured him with his baptismal name and inherited sur name, Peter Penicuick; by most of his fellow-townsfolk, and others who estimated him by his penurious disposi tion and the limited nature of his commercial transactions, Peter Pennyworths; and by a somewhat numerous and needy brood of nephews and nieces, who looked expectantly forward to the time when their relative would " shuffle off this mortal coil " and leave his wealth behind, Uncle Peter.

It is needless to say that I belong to this latter class. Uncle Peter had been cast early on his own resources, and had somehow drifted into commerce — first as an itinerant vendor of small wares, and subsequently as a general merchant in his native borough of Keckleton. From the day on which he first sold for a penny the packet of needles which originally cost himself a halfpenny, Uncle Peter had never been content with less than a cent, per cent. profit; but being as keen in buying as he was in selling, he generally realised his prices, previous to the introduc tion of railroads into our part of Scotland — an innovation which he never ceased to lament till the day of his death. When a customer grudged the price of any article, and asserted that it could be purchased at a lower figure A elsewhere, Uncle Peter, who possessed a certain rugged independence, would say — " Weel, weel, just gang whaur ye think ye'll be cheaper ser'd, but tak' my word for't, ye'll pay dearer i' th' end;" and as the general excellence of his goods rendered this a frequent experience, he sold more at large profits than could have been expected, seeing he was very chary of giving credit.

If, however, his profits were large, his overturns were comparatively small, so that his business never extended beyond his own personal management, and he was accustomed to say — "Folk think that I'm rich; hoo cud I be rich? It tak's a lang time for ae man selling pennyworths to lay past a poun' note." There was no doubt truth in the observation; but as Uncle Peter had remained a bachelor, and had been noted all his life for economy merging on miserliness, it was generally believed, and not without good grounds, that he was a " warm man." And the final disposal of his wealth was necessarily a matter of no small speculation in Keckleton, but more particularly among us who fondly hoped to become legatees. In oar family this hope was naturally strong by reason of my mother having been the most favoured by Uncle Peter of any of his relatives.

She had been his housekeeper previous to her marriage, and although he had looked upon that event with much disaffection, in course of time he relented so far as to pay and receive occasional visits from her, and these more frequently after the death of my father. Towards myself Uncle Peter displayed a partiality which led my mother to indulge in the brightest anticipations, for he would extend his great, gaunt, bony fingers, and pat me on the head, as often as he came to our house; and if I happened to »o with my mother, or be sent on an errand to his shop, in addition to the alreadymentioned indication of affection, he would wipe the said bony fingers on his coarse sacking apron, insert them into a wide-mouthed bottle of sweets, and extract as many as half-a-dozen lozenges or sugar drops for my delectation.

When I was about twelve years of age, Uncle Peter let fall some hints which led my mother to think that he would not be unwilling to receive me into his own shop as an apprentice ; but as she well knew that my tastes and inclinations drew me in a different direction, she wished, as far as lay in her power, to give me a chance to follow their bent, and so she contrived to put uncle off with some sort of temporising answer. In consequence of all those indications of favour, I began to be regarded as Uncle Peter's heir, both at home, and also among my cousins in Keckleton and elsewhere. I am bound, however, to say, in all fairness to the old man himself, that, beyond what has been men tioned, he neither said nor did anything to encourage this assumption. Moreover, as time wore on, and my mother reported the favourable progress I was making in my studies, especially in drawing, she observed, with no little uneasi ness, that Uncle Peter received her intelligence with a grunt, which did not seem indicative of much satisfaction.

But when I had the good fortune to gain the first prizes at our local School of Art in both the drawing and colouring departments, and my work, on being sent up to Edinburgh, had procured for me the privilege of free tuition at the Royal Scottish Academy, my mother thought it impossible but that her brother would catch some part of her own enthusiasm in respect to my talents. However, the old man received the information with the usual grunt, and the repetition of a well-worn proverb, "He that will to Cupar maun to Cupar." "But if you only saw some of Hugh's drawings and paintings," urged my poor mother, "you would not doubt for a moment, Peter, but that he is a real born artist." "Nae doot, nae doot," replied Uncle Peter, "but it wud hae been better for you an' himsel' to, that he hed been born a real tailor, souter, or baker, or even with the genius to become a sma' merchan' like mysel'," was the discouraging reply.

"But you will let him bring his portfolio and show what he can do ?" my mother further pleaded. " He needna be at the fash," said uncle ; but with a sort of relenting smile he added, " I'll drap in some nicht and tak' a luik o' his bits o' pictur's to please you, Mary, an' we'll see what can be dune for the laddie. We maunna harden oor hairts against him athegither." With this poor sympathy my mother was fain to take her departure. True to his promise Uncle Peter did "drap in to see my bits o' pictur's," was pleased to express something not very far from approbation of my " handiwork," and by way of giving a practical direction to my energies and acquire ments, he announced that he would make interest with the landlord of the Dog and Gun for a job to me, namely, the furbishing up of his old " signboard."

Luckily, I happened to be out at the time, otherwise there is no saying but I might have been imprudent enough to reject Uncle Peter's intended patronage with more disdain than gratitude. At anyrate his good inten tions were never put into execution, for the very next day saw him laid down on his deathbed. The dying man had been all his life so unsympathetic and selfish, that his last illness excited but little commiseration in others. Even my mother appeared to be more concerned about the disposal of his goods and chattels than about the patient himself. It is but fair, however, to say that her solicitude was for her family and not for herself, and most of all on my account. My chances had alternated in her mind from confident hope, in the days of the lozenges and sugar drops, to the borders of despair, when my art proclivities became the subject of Uncle Peter's disapproval.

Again, a rebound had taken place when the merits of my " bits o' pictur's " received a sort of surly recognition from him, but when he sent from his deathbed a message for me to visit him — me alone of all his numerous nephews and nieces — hope rose to its zenith. My brothers and sisters congratulated me in anticipation, and my mother herself, while warning me against false hopes and the pride that goeth before a fall, could hardly conceal her own elation of spirits. With trembling eager ness I made my way to Uncle Peter's dwelling, into which I was admitted by Betty Dean, an old maid who had succeeded my mother as uncle's housekeeper, and had retained the post ever since. Without delay Betty ushered me into a chamber so unique that it deserves a few words of description. It was a long, lowceiled apart ment on the ground floor, at right angles to the shop, and having an entrance both from it and also from the dwelling-house.

Against the wall boxes and barrels were crowded without any other attempt at arrangement than the keeping clear of a passage of about two feet in width near the centre of the apartment, at the far end of which a space of about nine feet was partitioned off by unplaned deal boards. Within this enclosure was Uncle Peter's bed, and here were also his strong box, an antique chest of drawers, and sundry other articles on which he appeared to set a special value. It was not mere whim which had caused Uncle Peter to make his bedroom in that rather unlikely place. An attempt had once been made to break into the shop, and immediately thereafter he had fitted up this citadel, and furnished it with a sufficient armoury in shape of a superannuated military rifle and several stout cudgels, and there he had kept nightly watch and ward ever since, in order to be ready to stand by his stuff, in the event of any further predatory attacks being made upon it ; and there is little doubt but that he would have given a good account of any plunderer, had ever one dared to appear, for he stood fully six feet in his shoes, with bone, muscle, and courage proportionate.

Now, however, that he was down in his last illness, it might have been more seemly that he should have been laid in the ben end, as he himself had remarked to my mother, but he was, he said, " owre ill to be fashed wi' a change, an' wud e'en dee as he had lived by the stuff." At the moment of my entrance into his little sanctum he was in bed with his face towards the wall, but when Betty said, "It's Hugh Paiterson, maister," he turned round with a groan and said, "Ye can leave us, Betty;" then addressing me, he said — " Oh, Hugh, man, but ye're lang in comin' '" I replied that it was not an hour since my mother had reached home to inform me that I was wanted. " Weel, weel," he answered, " it may be only the im patience o' a man whase sands are numbered and quickly rinnin' oot that gars me think sae."

I ventured to say that recovery might not be so hope less as he seemed to think it. "Recovery!" he answered sharply, "there's nae hope o' recovery — nane, an' I canna say I greatly desire it. I canna say I'm sorry that the weary warsle o' life is sae nearly owre. Na, na, Hugh, I maunna complain ; an' I dinna complain. I've had my day. I've seen my three score an' ten years, an' anither half-score to haud them hale wi' ; sae I am content to tak' staff in han' an' try the crossin' o' the Jordan by sic fords or coble as may be granted me. My task in life is finished, Hugh, an' yours is beginning, sae I just sent for you to gie you a bit legacy to start wi'." Here he made a pause, as if exhausted, at the same time scanning my features with his still keen grey eyes ; then he resumed, as if in answer to the thoughts which my face had expressed to him — "Nae a legacy o' siller, Hugh, but o' soun' common sense.

A legacy o' guid advice, which, if followed, may prove o' far greater vailue than a' the siller I cud lea' ye. Luik at me, Hugh, I'm an auld man, a man o' nae little worldly experience, a man wha has aye got credit for soun' common sense, an' I'm a deein' man, Hugh." Here followed another pause, and I did look at him as he lay there — grimmer, gaunter, ghastlier, with his eyes more sunk, his eyebrows more shaggy, his forehead more wrinkled, his nose and chin more threatful than I had ever before seen them, — and I could not but feel that his last statement at least, namely, that he was a dying man, was true, and that, so far as any voucher for the sincerity of the advice about to be tendered me was required, this was certain, that it would be given on the faith of a man who believed in its value and importance.

"Ye're a laddie, Hugh," he resumed, "that I lang thocht weel o', maybe owre weel o', for instead o' settlin' doon to a sober, industrious callin' at which ye wad be likely to mak' a decent livin', ye hae taen in yer heid to turn a pictur' -maker ! Noo, what is a pictur'-maker, Hugh ? I've kent twa i' this town i' my time, and the ane was starv't oot o' it, an' the ither lives in a hand-to moo' dependent mainner that's really pitiable to see. Hugh, tak' the last advice o' an auld man, an experienced man, o' a deein' man, an' a sincere frien', an' dinna turn a pictur'-maker." I might have offered some sort of remonstrance, but Uncle Peter left me no opening, for, drawing from below his pillow his well-worn verge watch, he continued — " An' noo, Hugh, tak' this as a sma' remembrance o' yer Uncle Peter.

She's keepit time for me for the best pairt o' sixty years, and tho' nae just what she was when I got her, I think ye'll find her weel worth pouch-room for some years yet. Fareweel, Hugh, fareweel, Hugh ; Gude bless you, an' grant that you an' I may meet again in a couthier woiT. Meanwhile, tak' my advice, turn to some profitable callin', and gie up the idea o' becomin' a pictur'-maker." These were the last words I ever heard from Uncle Peter, and the last time I saw him in life. The old verge watch I have in my possession still, not that it ever proved of much service to me as a " going concern," for its demise took place soon after that of its former owner ; and when I took it to a watchmaker, he told me that the works were fairly and faithfully worn out, and the cases, he considered, would be dear at seven shillings and sixpence as old silver.

As for the " legacy of guid advice," I entirely disregarded it, and although Art has often proved a niggardly enough pay-mistress, I have never seriously desired to change her service for any other. I may add that when Uncle Peter's will was read it proved nearly as disappointing to other expectants as his "bit legacy" had proved to me. My mother got five pounds to buy mournings ; Betty Dean got twenty pounds as a reward for upwards of as many years of faithful services at about half wages; and the residue of cash and property, amounting to the value of five or six thousand pounds, went to augment the funds of a charity for decayed merchants in Keckleton. Widoiv Will's Wooer. 9 WIDOW WILL'S WOOER. " They follow us whare'er we gang, An' gin' we try to set them packin', They swear their lives will no' be lang, Because their very hairts are brakin'. Against oor liberty they plot Whenever they behold us single, An' even in the widow's cot They want a chair beside the ingle."

Chapter I

J [T'S a mistak', sirs, a complete misun'erstandin' o' the [ haill maitter, to suppose that mairriageable widows mair frequently remain single than mairriageable widowers, simply because the men hae the spierin' word an' the women hinna. I'm a widow mysel', an' I ken' at least anither half-dizzen maybe — though I say it, wha perhaps sudna say it — less likely to the e'e than I am, an ilka ane o' us hae had offers, an' micht be wearin' oor second men at this very meenit, gin sic had been oor pleasure. Na, na, sirs, the women are few wha hae had the fash o' ae man for half-a-score, or even half-a-dizzen years, wha will care to encounter the fash o' a second. In nine cases oot o' ten, sirs, when we dae mairry a second or a third time, it's nae oor ain inclination, it's nae oor ain interest, it's nae oor ain convenience, an' surely it's nae oor ain comfort that we consult.

Na indeed, it's either oot o' sheer pity for the men themsel's; oot o' con sideration for their laneliness, their fecklessness; or it's because they wear oot oor wills by their very persistence, as the constant drap wears oot the stane, that we consent to relinquish oor freedom for their sakes. My man, John Will, wis just a fair average o' what men are generally. Gie him his head, an' let him gang his ain gait, an' he wis a' richt ; but thraw wi' him, an' he was just as stubborn an' rampageous as a wild ox. He wis a guid score o' years my senior, an' folks warna slack to say that I took him for the sake o' a couthie doonsit, but that wisna the case. I took him jist because he had set his hairt on gettin' me ; an' bein' o' that headstrong an' positive character which I hae mentioned, I saw weel he wud either gang fairly wud gin I continued to refuse him, or actually tak' the bed an' gie up the ghost for my sake ; an' as I cudna thole the thocht o' haen either o' the twa sair catastrophes at my door, I e'en consented to avert them by becomin' Mrs Will.

Wi' carefu' study o' Mr Will's likes an' dislikes, an' wi' canny guidin' o' the reins, so that he thocht he was gaen his ain gait when he was gaen just as I wanted him, I contrived to mak' oor half-score years o' wedded life nae mair unpleasant than I had expected, an' when John Will wis taen awa', he left his a' to me, for he had nae near relations. Weel, bein' a bien an' comely widow, short o' twa-score, ye may judge that I wisna lang i' my weeds afore I saw that a bit wag o' my little finger, a blythe twinkle o' my e'e, or a couthie smirk o' my lips, cud at ony time bring wooers ding-dang to my door; but I wanted nane o' them, an' gae them nae encouragement; an' I keepit the maist forward o' them a' at the staff end, though nane had ony cause to complain o' my incivility. Hoo sud I, Mrs Janet Will, risk the comforts o' a cosy four-roomed cottage, an' a bonnie bit gairden, wi' a canty Widow Will's Wooer. 11 income sufficient, an' mair than sufficient, for my wants, including a douce deamie o' a servan' lassie to wait upon my will an' pleesure; hoo, I say, sud I risk a' this, an' trust my ain freedom o' word, action, an' life to the rule an' pooer o' ane o' the maisterfu' sex, wha ca' themsel's " lords o' the creation," an' dae their very best to deserve the name?

I'll no deny, hooever, that I had some hair breadth escapes, an' I dinna min' gien you a sample. I had been about twa years a widow, an' wis beginnin' to feel a moderate confidence in my ain pooers o' defence, when I wis takin' a turn ae evenin' i' my bit front gairden, an' up comes a sonsie, weel-dressed, genteel-like man, ap parently aboot my ain time o' life, accompanied by a wise, winsome bit slip o' a lassie. The pair made a sort o' a halt at my yett, nae doot attracted by the beauty o' my roses, for I had then, as I hae still, some o' the bonniest simmer roses to be seen in the borough o' Keckleton. " Oh, do look, Major Benson ; what pretty roses ! " cried the bairn, lood aneuch for me to hear her. " They are indeed lovely, my dear," replied her com panion, in a deep musical voice, wi' an accent that I kent weel didna belang to Keckleton.

The gentleman's voice had an effect upon me that I couldna weel account for at the time, an' canna weel account for yet. At onyrate, afore I hardly kent what I wis daen, I had snippit aff the bushes twa o' the bonniest roses i' the gairden, an', stepx in' up tae the yett, 1 said wi' a smile, at the same time \ resentin' the ane to the gentleman an' the ither to the bairn — "Sin ye admire my roses sae much ye'll maybe honour me by acceptin' a sample o' them." The gentleman not only thankit me very kindly, but also made me a fine military salute into the bargain. He had a certain gentleman -like ease in his mainner that put us at once on the footing o' auld acquaintances, an' I sae far threw aff a' reserve that I invited them to step into the gairden an' tak' a look o' a' my bit flooers, an invitation which was accepted without hesitation.

Ae advance led till anither, an' afore ten minutes had passed, I had learnt wha my new acquaintances were. Sergeant-Major Benson, a Devonshire man, had been sent doon by the War Office to drill the newly raised Keckleton Volunteers. He was lodged wi' the coachman o' Mickle Ha's wife, an' the bit slip o' a lassie wis the coachman's youngest dochter, wha, the Major said, wis daen him the honour to show him the beauties o' Keckleton ; an' he wis sae flatterin' as to add, "But she has shown me nothing so pretty as your garden, Mrs Will. Indeed, my little friend has frequently wished me to come this way before to-night, and my walk has been amply rewarded. Her descriptions have been far excelled by the reality." Of coorse I cudna help bein' pleased an' flattered by a' this, an' bein' far frae weel versed in military matters, I gae a much higher rank in my ain mind to the Sergeant- Major than really belonged to him, placin' him somewhere atween a Colonel an' a General, an' considered it nae sma' honour that he sud enter into my bit gairden, an' address mysel' in sic an elegant an' complimentary mainner.

When he an' the bit lassie took their departure, how ever, I couldna but reflect on mysel' for enterin' into sic a sudden intimacy wi' a stranger o' the opposite sex, wha, I cud easily see, wis mair than pleased wi' me an' my bit placie, an' wha had managed, in less than half an 'oor's time, to let me ken that he wis a wanter, wha wadna be adverse to matrimony wi' a suitable person, an' to worm oot o' mysel' that 1 wis a widow wi' a decent income entirely under my ain control. I therefore resolved to be mair o' my guard in future, sud Major Benson favour me wi' a second visit, which I had a strong presentiment that he would dae. Widoiv Will's Wooer. 13 Weel, this presentiment didna turn oot wrang, he nae only cam' again, but the simmer roses faded, the fruit ripened an' fell, or wis gathered frae the tree; the leaves waned, fell, an' were whirled awa by the. blasts o' autumn; the winter snaws began to whiten the distant hills, an' still Major Benson found some attraction or anither that led him to my yett at least ance a week.

In fact his visits had been frequent eneuch to set the tongues o' the gossips o' Keckleton waggin'; but that I minded little. I wis never ane to let the clash o' the neighbourheid interfere wi' my peace or pleesure. I said an' did naething to unnecessarily encourage him to come, an' at the same time I cudna fin' i' my hairt to deprive him o' ony sma' bit enjoyment that either a sicht o' my plants an' flo'ers, or maybe a nod or a smile frae mysel' at the window or the door, or a five minutes' crack at the yett, cud afford him. Further than this, hooever, I took guid care that oor intimacy didna gang, though I maun admit that on several occasions it wis a piece o' rael self-denial on my pairt to refrain frae askin' him in to a wee drap o' a dram when I kent he wis on the return frae a lang, toilsome shootin' match.

Chapter II

Weel, the shootin' matches gaed past an' the drill itsel' wis owre for a season, an' it cam' to my ears that the Major had got the route for Carlisle. Of coorse I expected him to come my gait afore he left Keckleton. In a' likelihood he wud ca' to say gude-bye ; an' altho' he had never been within the four was o' Rosebank Cottage, I thocht I cudna' let him leave the toon without inveetin' him in to partake o' a dram an' a bite o' cheese an' bread at the least. I wis nae langer in ony mist aboot his rael rank. I had informed mysel' correctly on that point, as weel as in relation to his general character an' conduct, sae far as these were kent at Keckleton, for it behoves a woman, an' mair especially a woman possessin' considerable warldly gear in her ain richt, to be very circumspect in the wale o' the sort o' men she admits to her society.

Weel, the voice o' Keckleton wis unanimous in declarin' that Major Benson wis a perfect model o' propriety, and he wis jist as exact as the town's clock in the performance o' a' his duties ; sober, good-tempered, an' quite adored by the men in his capacity o' drill instructor, an' mair than that, I had observed that he wis a regular attender at the same kirk as mysel'. There seemed nae reason to question the perfect re spectability o' the Major, but I cudna but own to mysel' that it wud be a daft-like thing for me to forsake a com fortable hame at my time o' life, an' scamper aboot the warld wi' a sodger hooever respectable he micht be. The thing wisna to be thocht o' seriously, but there seems to be a natural desire o' conquest i' the human briest, an' I maun confess that I didna like to hae been sae groundlessly made the subject o' the gossips' claick.