Round the Grange Farm: or, Good Old Times

Front matter

ROUND THE GRANGE FARM. THE GRANGE FARM. Frontispiece.) Round The Grange Farm: OR, §rr0ir §I„t %wtt EY JEAN L. WATSON, AUTHOR OF "BYGONE DAYS IN OUR VILLAGE," ETC. ; AND JOINT AUTHOR OF "THE SONGSTRESSES OF SCOTLAND." EDINBURGH: WILLIAM P. NIMMO. 1872. EDINBURGH : PRINTED BY M'FARLANE AND ERSKINE, (late Sckenck &* M' Far lane,) ST JAMES' SQUARE. TO |jat[„Ji IgtUih IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THE PLEASURE RECEIVED FROM HER WRITINGS, AND IN REMEMBRANCE OF OTTR FIRST MEETING ON A BONNY SUMMER DAY LANGSYNE.

Chapter I

, %\t |[tsst-r 0s ih $Hr |arm-|0ttst PAGE The Poor Man's Friend— A Village Hampden — Still Waters Run Deep — Dwelling in Unity — Jamie Brydon's Story — Mary Hislop's Story — Blossoms from Dust, .... 1-15

Chapter II

St ©aUntiiu's gatr. The Literature of St Valentine — Esther Harvey and Allan Lee — An Anonymous Valentine — The Laird's "Wooing — What came of it — A True Old Proverb — News of Battle and its Consequences, 16-39

Chapter III

%\t fpstrm 0s §8l,nhsii. Natural and Beautiful — The Bride comes Home — Rachel — A Spartan Mother — Graves of a Household, 40-50 CONTENTS. VIII PAGE

Chapter IV

%\t first 0f &pril. Hunting the Gowk— Sandy Gilray— The Dominie and his Son — Betrothed — Broken Faith — A Father's Scorn — Married not Mated — The Way of Transgressors — A Prodigal's Return, 51-68

Chapter V

%\t fillagt grtssmaktr. Woman's Rights — A Colloquy Thereon — A Mysterious Dressmaker — Her Plans for the Future — Looking Backwards — Country Horsemanship — Philip Maxwell returns from Market — Something for the Lasses — " Logan Lea " — A Dark Deed — Light Thrown Thereon — Love, the Tracker — Agur's Prayer — A Mother's Blessing — Philip Creates a Sensation — Meets his Betrothed — Marries her — And the Dark Day Ends, ...... 69-101

Chapter VI

"gauLri-" tU ft-Iar. The Chapman's Art — A Dangerous Trade — The Herbalist — An Incipient Miser — " Train up a Child" — A Loyal Auld Wife — Decidedly Pleasant — The Pedlar's Eye to Busines, and Power of CONTENTS. IX PAGE Speech — A True Blue Covenanter — Keen but Leal Hearted — An Honest Man, . 102-124

Chapter VII

%\t Carttr's 'flag. Waiting for the Procession — A Blunt Question — A Fair and False One — Jenny Forbes' Difficulties — The Procession Starts — The Carter's Race — Laying the Odds — Rouping the Flags — Sic Transit Gloria Mundi, .... 125-141

Chapter VIII

%\t f tltltg MtWiltsj. Annals of the Poor — The Kail-yard — A Barnyard Beauty — Breaking the Bride's Cake — The ' Dancing-Room — A Joke for the Lasses — Among the Greybeards — Peg and her Cuddie — " I was Young and Hearty" — Hoolachan — The Curtain Drops, ..... 142-158

Chapter IX

%\t Stt£trstiii0tts 0s mx Causes of Superstition — Good Neighbours — The Brownie — Aiken Drum — The Water Kelpie — " Good Old Times" — Counter Spells — Elspeth Green, and what Befell her — A Dark Deed — The Orphan's Story, .... 159-181 CONTENTS. X PAGE

Chapter X

®|t lint. A Great Annual Event — Bringing Home the Sheaves — " Tipperary Boys " — The Wassail Bowl — Jamie Brown's Song — " Ower the Hills and Far Awa" —The Weaver's Song— Criticism — " Elder's Hours," ..... 182-193

ftillagt Rustic Colloquy — Getting up a Benefit — Amateur Theatricals — " Dead for a Ducat ! " — The Low Comedian — Drooping — Nancy's Reward, . 217-231 CONTENTS. XI PAGE

Chapter XIV

% fee %\\ gsiltr. The House of Ormindale — Waiting for Death — Legend of the Coronach — Passing Away — Dust to Dust — A Retrospect — The Young Lord — The Butler's Offer — An Approving Conscience — In Memoriam, ..... 232-250

Chapter XV

|Uto star's €0t. Christmas Trees — Seeking Handsel — Blaweary — Hawking without a License — A Good Joke — The Laird's Horse Shies — " Nae Luck about the Hoose" — Hope Deferred — Better than Gold — The Truant — A Pleasant Surprise — Chip of the Old Block, . . . .251-275

Chapter XVI

%\t 'gast §iaufe*is. Gritland Onsteading — Rob Tennant and his Wife — Homely Fare — A Sturdy Beggar gives High Security ; thereafter commits theft ; repents anon, and is forgiven, .... 276-288 IXi S faithful renhniscences of Scottish hfe were /A| the ground on which the writer advanced _$_^j_ a plea to notice in her former volume, "Bygone Days in our Village," and as the sketches there comprised have been not unfavourably received, there is a temptation to count yet on similar indul gence for a further sample from the same store. So far from the fund being exhausted after that first draft upon it, the writer soon came to feel that it had been then handled with a shghtness and compara tive inexperience, which were but too apt to leave the better part of it behind, unused. Much material lay over for a time, that seemed impossible ever to put into an attractive shape, indeed did not appear likely to fah in with the taste of Pubhshers, unless so altered as to lose what the writer had most in view. This, she may

Preface

. XIV now state, was, as it stih is, the mere reproduction of incident, and of circumstances, traits, and manners, from a particular locahty. The scenes were too familiar to knowledge, as weh as too sacred to memory, to ahow of the play of fancy, or any attempt at narrative connection except on the thread of personal remembrance. The stories included, like the occurrences of daily hfe con nected with them, were noway otherwise told than as recollection brought them up, with, of course, due heed to considerations of individual reference. In the view of friends, whose judgment there was reason to trust, a value attached on this very account to the material in question. It was, moreover, thought by them that a special feature of recommendation lay in its embracing so much detail of old country customs, rustic holiday observances, and quaint local usages, with the scraps of bahad poetry or doggrel rhyme belonging to them.

" Contributions toward a minor heraldry," as one partial adviser was pleased to express it, " of the cere monial order which tradition had enjoined on our peasantry for their times of recreation, a thing quite unknown to the mob of an excursion-train." True it is, in regard to such things, a httle while ago contemporary with us — hence apparently trivial, un couth to see, tedious to hear of — that now they be°in to belong to olden times, and are fast passing beyond

PREFACE.

. XV the knowledge of the present generation. Before they get to their vanishing point, it may be as weh to fix some of them down in memory ; and the same may be said but too truly of habits, feelings, associations and beliefs, more important to take note of. Of such, the writer has endeavoured far more anxiously to lay hold ; doubtful how, when once lost, they can be replaced amidst the modern haste for change. She would fain, too, have done for her dear httle Scottish Border hamlet — at however wide an interval of inferiority in literary skill — what was done for a no less obscure English village by the exquisitely-gifted pen of Miss Mitford. Knowing this hopeless, it can, however, at ah events be claimed for the said district, that none exists more characteristic of Scotland ; whilst in Scotland there is to be found perhaps a more thoroughly representative form of national character than in most other countries.

Hence, doubtless, the sustained favour for ah books about its people ; a favour that has stih extended, tih even across the wide waters of the Atlantic a warm corner is discovered in the hearts of our good American cousins for the kindly old vernacular speech. It is evident that many there retain a knowledge of our homely Doric, or else take trouble to acquire such; otherwise it is difficult to conceive why the writer's previous httle work should have been reprinted in the

PREFACE.

. " States." Understanding that a simultaneous issue of the present volume is contemplated there, the author takes this opportunity to express the hope of its not falling at least behind its predecessor in the homelike reception already accorded to her by American readers. ROUND THE GRANGE FAEM: OR, GOOD OLD TIMES.

Chapter I. The Master Of The Old Farm-housk

" A kindly man among his kind." — Tennyson. YfpT 0"W dear is the memory of that old farm-house, fpj™ scarcely removed from the hum of village life, _to* nestling snugly amid trees, and half encircled by the green and silent mountain ! Summer and winter it looked the same cheerful spot, its white walls con trasting pleasantly with the dark pines which waved around. The stone fountain, shaded by the hawthorn bush — how pure were its waters, where the cows at evening came with heavy tread, and drank before re- A turning to their stahs, and the ploughman brought his team to be refreshed, while in it too the labourer filled his pitcher as he sat beneath the shade of the tree at his noontide meal. And then, the willow-fringed streamlet which fed that basin, how dehcious was the freshness it spread around, where wimpling over beds of matted water-cresses, it sought the meadows beyond, singing ever its ceaseless yet pleasing song — the song which at twilight lulled the children to sleep, who through the hours of the long summer day dabbled and waded in its waters, or plucked the blue forget-me-nots which bloomed on its margin.

Nor was the meadow the least attractive spot. There flourished the sweet wild-mint, white arrow-head, and long pimpernel; not forgetting the purple loose-strife with its gorgeous flowers; and then its grasses, too, how elegant and graceful, waving with the slightest breeze or at the passing swoop of the butterfly's wing. The garden bounded by its moss-covered wall was no less an object of interest, with its rows of round plump cabbages and curled greens, and its beds of feathery headed carrots and spearlike onions, while in its borders bloomed luxuriantly white and hly candytuft, purple thyme, red auriculas, and yellow daffodils, not to mention wall-flower, bachelor-buttons, gardeners' gar ters, jelly-flower, with "the bonny brier bush" in the THE POOR MAN'S FRIEND. 3 centre, the pride and glory of the homely " kail-yard."

Nor must the old pear-tree be omitted, nor the eager striving of the children to obtain at early morn its fahen fruit, which the previous night-wind had scattered around. Life was busy within and about that dwehing ; stables, cow-houses, fields, abounded with healthy inhabitants ; no monotony there, no ennui, change of season bringing change of work — in winter, thrashing, ploughing, feeding cattle, and driving grain ; in spring, sowing seed; with summer, hay-making and sheep-shearing; and with autumn, cutting down and gathering in the precious fruits of the earth. But memory recalls most vividly the master who went out and in, dividing and regulating ah about the place, with his tall well-proportioned form, dark hair, clear blue eyes and firm expressive mouth, at whose corners lurked ever the benevolent smile; courted by the rich because of his intelligence, combined with many social quahties, and the genial sunshiny temper, which hke a summer's day, shed brightness ah around.

He was especially the poor man's friend. Sound good sense, and strong judgment, united with great sagacity, constituted the character termed by the Scotch " auld-farrant," which, when joined to a benevolent nature, as it was with him, is of far more value in the world than the sparkling wit or learnedly-studious hook-worm. We admire talent and genius, hut we respect and rely upon practical good sense, and prize a friend who possesses it. Eor then his judgment tehs him what at all times is best to be done, and our difficulties vanish in his hands. Or if it be one of the opposite sex who possesses this quality, what innumer able services is she not called upon to perform in jour neying through hfe ? Minute unrecorded services which have largely helped to keep in harmony the working machinery of existence.

Is it an invalid friend that she visits ? then how comfortable do the disordered pillows become to the aching temples, and the nicely-cooked meat rehshed by the sickly palate; while the old garments in her active hands appear like new, and the unkind speech of the thoughtless one is parried, and its edge blunted. In short, we know not what benefactors of mankind are these kindly " auld-farrant " folks, making no noise by their works, influencing us for good though we hardly perceive it, and only making us feel when cahed upon to mourn their loss, that they have left a blank in our paths, which can scarcely be filled. Such was the master of that old farm-house. He carried with him an influence which is felt to this hour, the result of honour and uprightness, united with benevolence so deep and wide, which doubtless, placed in more favour- A " VILLAGE HAMPDEN" 5 able circumstances, might have made him a Howard or a Wilberforce of world-wide fame, instead of living and dying hardly known beyond his own neighbourhood.

"You are too kind, too liberal," said a near relative to him, referring to children he was rearing with his own; "if you are thus generous to others, how can you do justice to your family ?" "My bairns wih be provided for," was the reply, " and as for the others, ye ken they need my help, puir things." " They need my help." This was enough, this was always enough for him. If his assistance was required, then freely, fuhy, it was given. The strong shoulder was laid to the pole, and the large heart enlisted with out any reference to, any perplexity about, the future. Do your duty, and trust in God for the rest, might have been his motto. As it was, thus he always acted, and this kept him from being "troubled amidst the perplexities of hfe." Although kind and indulgent to children, there was no undue leniency.

He secured then respect as weh as love ; he was the friend in whom they could confide. His spirit retaining the freshness and simphcity of youth, he could sympathise in ah the joys and sorrows of childhood, recalling the description of a modern poet — " 'Twas a blessing on us frae a heart that was warm, 'Twas a prayer, 'twas a heart without guile, hate, or harm, Nae wonder that bairnhood to him seemed sae bonny, For the heart o' a bairn beat in Auld Vennel-Johnnie." When one of those adopted ones who formed part of the home circle had left his charge, and years after was dying far away from the land of her childhood, her spirit went back with a weary longing for the kind, patient friend of her early days, and she sighed for the rich pure breezes of the hills to play once more on her brow, exclaiming " I think I should be weh were I only back to my old home, and nursed as I used to be when a sickly child by my dear, dear friend."

But that wish might not be granted, and she died with her heart's deep yearning unsatisfied. Then his devotion to woman, how tender it was, how patient, how chivalrous, loving them for their very weakness, but loving them also because of that gentle wife who understood, and appreciated so weh the rare and noble qualities of her husband. Theirs was a union of perfect, uninterrupted har mony, and never a jarring word or unkind look was heard or seen to pass between them. Delicate and fragile that wife had been, and he nursed her tenderly as a mother would a child, cheerfully, unwearied-y, through long days and sleepless nights, and when she STILL WATERS RUN DEEP. 7 died he mourned, but that so quietly, so uncomplain ingly, as was very touching to behold. Evincing that strangely peculiar Scottish character which hides the deep spring of passionate feeling under a calm exterior, making the grief more powerful, more enduring, from being pent up and concealed.

Yet his was no selfish sorrow, for when the earthly tie ceased, he seemed more than ever to seek the happiness of others, and his devotion was especially shown towards the relatives of his lost wife. There was a peculiar tenderness which went out in acts of kindness and love where they required his aid. Her father, her mother, her uncle, in turn found a home at the farm house, where, in sickness, sorrow, and death, they were watched over as by the most affectionate of sons, his own hand administering the medicine, or applying the soothing liniment. But not upon man alone was this sympathy poured forth so freely. Every living creature about the farm shared his love, and it might truly be seen from him : " He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man, and bird, and beast : He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small, For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all."

Was it the water-wagtail which had built its nest in the turf of the old bridge ? Then did the bright new sixpence bribe the herd-boy to protect the feathered fledglings from the prying eyes and cruel hands of the village children. Or, again, it might be one of his faithful horses he saw about to be yoked into the laden cart, then would the kindly " Drive him canny, puir beast " secure gentle treatment from the thought less youth who held the reins. Business sometimes requiring his presence in a distant part of the country, he was accustomed to set out early, choosing often a bright summer morning, taking near cuts through httle frequented-paths, jogging along at an easy pace over hih and plain, resting by some mountain burn to give his horse the good oatmeal bannock, which, with a drink of the brook, refreshed it for its journey.

Upon one occasion, having set out on such a long day's travel, he noticed the faithful animal appearing duh and heavy, and requiring the whip to be apphed pretty smartly. This happened once or twice, when suddenly it turned round and looked in its master's face with such a sad expression in its natural brown eye, that he, letting fah the instrument of chastisement and dismounting, discovered it was suffering from illness. Having been with difficulty got home, by great DWELLING IN UNITY. 9 care and attention it soon recovered, receiving ever after even greater consideration from its kind owner. Trusting " in the Lord," his upright and benevolent disposition led him also to put confidence in his fellow men, and this spirit, conspicuous throughout life, was manifested in his dying hours. Turning to his brother, bending over him in his last moments, he said, pointing to his children, so soon to he orphans : " Willie, ye'h look after my bairns when I'm gane, an' be kind to them, puir things !

" His brother, who was many years his senior, rephed : "But I'm an' auld man, John, an', in the course o' nature, canna be lang after ye." " Oh, then," calmly answered the dying man, without a shadow of doubt or fear disturbing his placid countenance, " I ken your sons winna see ony ih come ower them, an' the Lord wih protect them ; " adding rever ently, " He has given, and He has taken away again, blessed be His name." Of these brothers it may be said they " were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided," for almost the last entry in the journal of the survivor is this sentence : " My brother died last night. I can safely say we never had a dispute or quarrel, never an angry word all our lives." A meagre notice this, any one unacquainted with the writer might think, and yet to those who knew him best, what a meaning it contained !

They were both men of deeds and not of words ; men who felt deeply, but seldom expressed their feelings. And yet not confined to relations and home, was this boundless unwearied sympathy, this patient forbearance, this generous outpouring of the heart, which character ised the master of the old farm-house. Over all his fellow-creatures it went forth, unth his name became a household word. " It's lang, lang noo, sin' the maister died," said old Jamie Brydon one day to me, while the tears trickled shently down his furrowed cheeks, and he wiped them away with the sleeve of his coat. "Lang, lang, and muckle has come and gane sin' syne. Them that were bairns then, are men and women noo, and yet we have never seen his hke, nor ever will again." " The maister!" It's a homely word, and breathed by the Scottish peasant sounds kindly in our ears.

Yes, it was many years since Jamie had served at that farm, and other masters had been his ; stih the old man loved to think and speak of him alone as the maister, the best beloved, lingering over the words with a mournful kind of pleasure. His eye brightened as he went on to teh of the happy days spent in his service, of the love and JAMIE BRYDON' S STORY. 11 sympathy between employers and employed ; of the anxiety that in harvest the kirn should first be won by them, and how, for that purpose, they rose early in the morning to cut the grain, and as the last handful was shorn, how the reapers on the neighbouring farms slacked their speed; when reaching the nearest eminence they filled the air with loud huzzas, which informed the country around that they were first in the race. Then, by the light of the bright full moon, how they led the laden carts from the fields, and stacked the grain, not ceasing then labour unth the last sheaf was safely housed.

" His folk wad ha'e dune onything for him," Jamie added, " but nae wonder, he was a kind maister. I ha'e seen him come to us when we were thrashin', and say, ' There's a bonspiel to be played the day, wad ye hke to see it, lads ? if sae, ye may gang, an' finish that job the morn.' Or, 'Wad ye hke to watch the hunt, cahants ? Then, aff wi' ye, we're no sae thrang that ye need want your enjoyment this afternoon.' An' then, if ony o' us was ih," continued the old man, " how gude he was ! I mind o' the time, the puir laddie Steenie (that's my sister's son), got his hand crushed in the saw mill. As ye may guess, we were a' gey sair put about, an' mair sae when the doctor came an' said it maun be cut off. Weel, the maister happened to hear o't, and rode down as fast as the beast could carry him.

It just seems like yesterday sin' I can mind my sister sittin' greetin' when he came in and said, quite cheery, ' Dinna be cast down, maybe things are no sae bad as ye think.' Weel, was it no' strange — mony a time we spak' o't after — his words just seemed to put hfe into us, an' we just thought that noo when he was there, a' would be right. After that, he turned round to the doctor, a stupid kind o' body, wha just at that very moment was getting things ready to take aff the hand, and said, ' If ye'h wait for a day or twa afore ye dae that, an' trust me wi' 't, I think I'll bring him through.' The doctor wasna for yieldin', but the maister insisted, for ye maun under stand he had ance hved wi' a friend o' his, a great doctor in Glasgow, an' got a wonderful insight into things ; sae at last he carried his point, an' every day for six weeks, he rode down to my sister's, an' sorted the wownd wi's ain fingers, till it was hale, an' now the hand's servin' Steenie to this day."

" The maister" says the old shoemaker's wife who hves in the cottage on the moor, " was a kind man to the puir, an' never spared himsel' when he could do a gude turn to onybody." Perhaps it was this very characteristic of "never sparing himsel'," which made the maister so much beloved. The rich man scatters a few superfluous coins MARY H/SLOBS STORY. 13 among his less fortunate brethren, giving them what demands from him no self-denial, no sacrifice, and of which, after all, he is only a steward, and, therefore, the bounty hghtly given is hghtly prized. But when one gives his time, talents, energies, endures hardships, and bestows labour to benefit or serve them, then do they recognise a friend, and give him what they can in return ; and oh, what a blessed return ! — the love of simple and affectionate hearts, a gift in this cold world beyond ah price.

" I may weel mind him," says Mary Hislop, the old cripple woman, as she rests by the side of the high way. " Sit down, miss, if ye're no in a hurry, an' I'h teh ye about him. Hech ! sirs, but auld times come back to my mind when I think o' him, an' I wasna the puir lonely body I'm noo, but a blythe wife an' mother, an' the maister gaun out and in wi' his cheery look, an' aye the joke an' laugh ready if we were happy, or the word o' comfort if we were wae. Oh ! but he was a braw gude-hke man too, the best dancer ye ever saw, an' no ane in a' the parish could come up to him for fun and diversion. He ance rode the broose an' won it, to ha'e the bride on afore him, for he stuck at naething. And yet wi't a', he was sae tender-hearted, and wadna see a hving thing ih-guided. The bairns did hke him weel about the place, and though he teh't them to come to his stack-yard an' get as mony peas as they hked to eat, no ane o' them would ha'e touched a thing belonging to him, tho' they were geyan mischiwous on a' the rest o' the farmers round.

Nane o' them wad ha'e ta'en an apple, or a pear either, frae his garden. He didna need strong locks nor big dowgs like a heap o' the gentry. But what I was gaun to teh ye the noo, miss, was o' him ance riskin' his life to save our house frae bein' brunt. " It was ae gloamin' when my man was frae hame, that the bairns, when playin' wi' some spunks, set the byre in a lowe, an' afore ever I kent, my cow, puir beast, was brunt, and the flames had ta'en a grip o' the house. I flew out like ane demented to alarm the neighbours, but a' the men were at the fah, an' naebody left about the place but a wheen laddies an' some women. Just at that minute the maister was ridin' past wi' the Laird o' Mossland, an' hearin' o' the disaster, he threw his horse's bridle ower the branch o' a tree an' cam' to our help.

The first thing I saw o' him was, he was up on the tap o' the house, an' workin' wi' a' his might, direckin' the cahants that gathered round him, proud to dae his biddin'. Weel, to mak' a lang story short, he never stopped tih he got out the fire, an' the house was httle the waur. But that wasna a', for after he had lain down on his bed BLOSSOMS FROM DUST. 15 at nicht, he turned feared that the lowe wad break out again an' burn us when we were sleepin' ; sae he rase an' cried up Jock Jackson, an' made him tak the horse an' ride round our house to see if a' was right ; nor did his kindness stop there, for in the mornin', when I wauken'd wi' a sair heart thinkin' o' my cow, an' wonderin' how ever we could get another, somebody rapped at the door. I got up an' opened it, an' was surprised to see a lad stanclin' at the back o't wi' a young quey held by the head.

" ' The maister sent me wi' this beast to ye,' he said, " for he thocht ye wad need the milk for your bairns this mornin'.' Dae ye wonder now, miss, that we a' liked him sae weel ?" said Maty, when she had finished her tale. And thus the villagers speak of him in the long winter evenings, as they sit by the fire talking of the past ; and thus they keep alive in the hearts of their children and grand-children, the remembrance of him upon whose grave many winters have shed their snows, and many summer suns have wooed into beauty the wild flowers that bloom on its turf.

Chapter II. St

valentine's dat. " Muse, bid the morn awake, Sad winter now declines, Each bird doth choose a mate, This day's St Valentine's. For that good bishop's sake, Get up and let us see What beauty it shall be That fortune us assigns." Drayto^t. AlnlnPHE anniversary of St Valentine's day is now Si? little noticed except by the humble class and ciilLo children, Avho find amusement in sendin? anonymous letters to friends or neighbours containing pictures or poetry either sentimental or satirical; but once in our land this day was observed in more earnest fashion, when in all ranks groups of gay young bachelors and blythe maidens met together, and, amidst LITERATURE OF ST VALENTINE. 17 gay jests and light laughter, made the choice of their Valentines a work of consideration. The Valentine literature of those times consisted almost entirely of doggrel verses, the composition of some village poet, of which a few specimens may be given.