Chapter 6

"Gentlemen," he said, "ye maunna think that I am sae blind as no to see what is yer true meanin, concealed though it be under this thick veil o' courtesy and delicate regard to my feelins. Ye want to try to conceal frae me that ye ken how muckle baith you and I are obliged to a sensible and discreet woman; and ye hae twa reasons for this: _first_, ye dinna like to acknowledge that ye are indebted to a woman for savin frae the hands o' the spoiler the incorporation-box; and, _secondly_, ye dinna like to say that yer boxmaster is under the kindly care and protection o' his guidwife. Now, as to the first, I leave it in yer ain hands; but as to the second, I will free ye frae a' delicacy and difficulty, for I here acknowledge and declare, wi' pride and pleasure, that Mrs Jean Todd is my counsellor and adviser in a' my affairs, baith public and private; and mony a time she has kept me frae that ruin whilk my ain wit and wisdom never could hae saved me frae. I dinna need to say that it was that admirable woman wha saved the incorporation-box: the thing is already owre the town, and dootless kenned to ye a', and, I warrant ye, also to yer wives. Why, then, should I accept o' honour I never wrocht for, and couldna hae merited by a' the power and skill o' my puir abilities? 'The labourer is worthy o' his hire.' 'Honour to him to whom honour is due.' I therefore move that the thanks ye intended for me should be offered to Mrs Jean Todd--to whom also, wi' your permission, I would suggest that the piece o' silver-plate should be presented."

This speech produced much laughter throughout the hall. Some humorous member relished the idea, and, standing up, seconded the boxmaster's motion.

"A' our difficulty has vanished," he began; "and glad am I to see that the honour we intended for the _real_ conservator o' our corporation-box may be, through the noble spirit o' our _nominal_ boxmaster, communicated without the intervention o' a deputy. I second Mr Todd's motion, because I admire his spirit, and because I rejoice in an opportunity of doing justice to thae great conservators o' our sex--the strong-minded, gaucy, thrifty, and loving wives o' Scotland, to whom our very nation (if it were kenned) awes the character it has acquired owre the face o' the earth, for its prudence, its honesty, and its trustworthiness. Weel do I ken that the dear craturs hae suffered for their exertions in the cause o' our sex, and their authority has been attempted to be put an end to by drunken caitiffs, wha, wantin the nobility o' mind to admire and _serve_ wham they canna equal, blaw up their pot-companions against petticoat authority, by dubbin them _henpecked_, forgettin, the wretched craturs, that that very hen supplies often the egg, at least clocks to preserve it for future increase. The very men the dear craturs feed, and clothe, and protect, and cherish, sing in the pot-houses that they want their liberty--

'Becaus their wifis hes maistery, That they dar nawayis cheip; Bot gif it be in privity, Quhan thair wifis are in sleip.'

And, while the sang is birrin through the fumes o' the ale, thae very wives are busy toilin to hae the singers weel fed, cled, and cared for, in a' their concerns. What a noble example, on the other side o' the question, has Mr Todd this day exhibited! Wives are generally honoured through their husbands. He shall be honoured through his wife. What I hae said, I believe will meet wi' the approbation o' this meetin; but I'm no sae sure o' the success o' what comes--because I propose to tak a sma' liberty wi' the English language, and, by a kind o' a trope or figure o' speech, to keep the name, while we boldly change the thing. I'm weel aware that our minutes bear that _Mr_ Todd is our boxmaster; but we ken better than that, and we, whase trade it is to change colours, can hae nae difficulty in reconcilin the tints. I therefore move, as an amendment, that the piece o' plate be presented at once to Mrs Jean Todd, _our boxmaster_."

The suggestion took; the humour was relished; the minutes were altered; the name of Mrs Jean Todd was substituted for Mr Andrew Todd; and the books of the incorporation bore, and bear to this day, that the plate had been presented to Mrs Jean Todd, "_their boxmaster_," as a memorial of the gratitude of the trade for her exertions in saving the incorporation's treasury.

THE PROFESSOR'S TALES.

THE SOCIAL MAN.

As we look upon the title of our tale, now that we have written it, we cannot suppress a shudder of horror. Like the handwriting on the wall, it seems typical of misery, revolution, and death. Revolution and death, do we say? What revolution, in the common sense of the word--we mean in a political one--was ever productive of such deplorable effects, as that moral revolution to which the bottle bears the social man?--what death, viewed merely as a physical evil, can be compared to that moral and intellectual destruction to which the good fellow so often subjects himself? It is no palliation of the evil to say that the social man is led by the best qualities of his heart, by the noblest faculties of his intellect, into the path which leads to utter wretchedness--to remorse, disease, and premature death in this world; and, if the combined testimony of reason and revelation be sufficient to establish any fact--to punishment in the next. Our faculties are good or bad only according as they are cultivated or controlled; and we cannot see that the unregulated social feelings which lead a man to plunge into dissipation, and to drag his friends along with him into the gulf of vice, are a whit less dangerous or fearful than the universally execrated disposition which impels him to plunge a dagger into his own heart, or to bury it in the bosom of his fellow-creature. On the contrary, they seem calculated to produce even greater mischief, and, therefore, are more worthy of general deprecation, in the same degree that a secret enemy is more deserving of universal abhorrence than an avowed one: the one stands forth with an open defiance, and a weapon drawn before the eyes of his victim, who may save himself by flight or conflict--the other "smiles, and smiles, and murders while he smiles."

How many noble beings have we known, destroyed utterly by the disposition to what is vulgarly called good-fellowship!--in how many instances have we known splendid talents, high love of moral rectitude, nay, even strong religious principles, strangled by the social feelings! At first, doubtless, there was but a slight dereliction of duty, mourned for sincerely, and punished by severe remorse; but, gradually, and with insidious motion, the victim revolved in a wider sphere, and more remote from the orbit of virtue, until, at length, escaping entirely from the attraction which had held him in the just path, he fell, with headlong and irresistible velocity, into the shapeless void of vice--the dark chaos of crime.

Our heart sickens as we pass in review before us the numbers of our early friends who have run this terrific career, who now fill timeless graves, or are yet in the land of existence, bearing about in their bosoms a living hell--whose hearts are already sepulchres. And, but that we thought the relation we are about to deliver may be of service to some who, already standing on the brink, are not fully aware of their danger--but that we conceived the tale of talent, generosity, and worth, miserably destroyed by the unregulated social feelings, may arrest some kindred spirit in its path to unanticipated misery--we should yield to the impulse which urges us to fling down our pen, and give ourselves up to sorrow for the departed.

William Riddell was the only son of a shepherd, who dwelt upon the moorlands that overhang one of the tributaries of the Tweed. The old man was one of those characters which have been so often and so well described--a stern, grave, intelligent, religious Scottish shepherd. The broad Lowland bonnet did not cover a shrewder head than old David Riddell's; nor did the hodden grey coat, throughout wide Scotland, wrap a warmer or more honest heart.

His honesty was manifest to all--the warmth of his feelings was latent, and required to be struck by strong emotion, ere it was developed externally. The solitary influences of nature, when habitually contemplated in her more wild and solemn aspects, seem calculated to mould minds of good natural capabilities, but which are shut out from the social acquisition of knowledge, into forms like that of David Riddell's. If they all, like the nature which has breathed its spirit into them, seem somewhat rugged and stern, they all, like her also, bear the sterling stamp of sincerity. The elements, which "are not flatterers, but counsellors that feelingly persuade him what he is," are his familiar companions--among the remote valleys, and along the precipitous mountain-sides, and upon the wide moorlands, their irresistible power leads him to look with awe up to their Creator and Controller, and humility also is impressed upon him; but with these a confident reliance on the mercy and benevolence of the Being who regulates them is naturally produced: and thus it is, that, with this awe and humility, a slavish fear is no portion of his character; for he has been in the heart of a thousand mists, and has yet returned safely to his cottage ingle--he has braved the storms of many winters, and still looks, with a prophetic eye, upon the fresh green of approaching springs, and the purple heath-blooms of coming summers. In a mind thus constituted, duplicity can never dwell. There are millions who, shut up in cities, and shrinking from the inclemency of the seasons, look on the shepherd of the mountains as one worthy only of commiseration--who paint him as a wretch whose soul is as barren as his moorlands, and think of him as a slave, wandering, with vacant mind and wearied frame, over gloomy solitudes, earning with misery to-day the food which enables his body to bear the toil of to-morrow.

How wide is this of the truth!--The sweet and tranquil joys of home are his, enhanced a thousand-fold by previous privation--the delights of connubial and filial love are more keenly felt by him, in the simplicity of nature, than by the luxurious citizen or the ermined noble; and though he has never heard the chant of the cathedral choir, or listened to the consecrated melody of an organ peal, the sublime transports of religion have thrilled his bosom beneath the solitary sky, amid the wild, or by the margin of the cataract that rolls its unvisited torrent over nameless cliffs. It is a mistaken belief that poverty and toil shut the shepherd's eyes from the loveliness of nature--nor is it true, that, because he is rude in speech, and possessed of little book-learning, he does not feel keenly, and translate faithfully, the beautiful language which she utters to the heart of man. Wordsworth has so exquisitely described what we are wishing to express, that we shall, without apology for the length of the quotation, repeat his words:--

"Grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, Are things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts: Fields, where with cheerful spirits he has breathed The common air--the hills, which he so oft Has climb'd with vigorous steps--which have impress'd So many incidents upon his mind, Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear, Which, like a book, preserves the memory Of the dumb animals whom he has saved, Has fed or shelter'd; linking to such acts, So grateful in themselves, the certainty Of honourable gain;--these fields, these hills, Which are his living being, even more Than his own blood--what could they less?--have laid Strong hold on his affections, are to him A pleasurable feeling of blind love-- The pleasure which there is in life itself."

It was with this well-spring of quiet happiness in his breast, that David Riddell had gone from day to day among his flock, and returned to his cottage fireside. His wife Rachel was one of those women of whom, notwithstanding the habitual discontent and sneers of men, there are thousands in this world, in this kingdom--nay, among our own Border hills--who, like the stars of heaven during the daylight, hold on their course noiselessly and unseen, but are, nevertheless, shining with a sweet and steady radiance, every one in its place, in the firmament. Placid, pious, and cheerful, with a quiet but kind heart, that ever and anon displayed its workings in the sweet light of her eyes, or in the "heartsome" smile that arranged her still lovely features into the symmetry of benevolence; in adversity--for she had lost children, and had known sickness--in adversity, patient and resigned; in prosperity--for their flocks had flourished, and many of their harvests had been abundant--in prosperity, not too much elated, but happy with a calm and grateful joy; finally, possessed of a gentle and forbearing nature, which rendered innocuous the occasional sternness or irritability of her husband, and turned insensibly aside the shafts which might have otherwise struck deadly at their domestic peace:--such was the partner of the joys and the sharer of the sorrows of David Riddell for above a quarter-of-a-century. Thus situated, it could not be but that he had been a happy man. For, though care and trouble had not unfrequently entered his dwelling, they had never long remained; nor do they ever continue to haunt a house in which good-nature and true piety are inmates. Four sweet children had been taken from them, each at an age which seemed more interesting than the other, and sorrow had, for a time, darkened their dwelling; but the tears of those griefs were now dried, and, save an occasional sigh from the bereaved parents, as some casual circumstance recalled their lost little ones to their recollections, the only traces of their former afflictions were to be found in the prodigality of affection which they lavished on their only remaining child. David Riddell was verging towards threescore, when William, the subject of the following narrative, was born. The old man's heart was entirely bound up in this child of his age. Frequently, not from necessity, but impelled by love, had he performed the ministrations of a mother to him; often, on a sunny day, had he carried him, like a lamb, in the corner of his plaid, up to the hills; and often, laying the unconscious infant on the purple heath upon the mountain-side, had he knelt down before him, beneath the solitary sky, and poured out his heart in gratitude to the God who had bestowed on him this precious gift. When little William was able to follow his father among the flocks, they became inseparable; and it was beautiful to behold the old man laying aside the gravity and sternness of his nature, and renewing, with his little boy, the sports which the lapse of half-a-century had well-nigh swept from his memory. They sought out together the nest of the lapwing and the moorfowl; they chased the humble-bee over the heath in company; or, loitering down the mountain streams, assisted each other in the pursuit of the speckled trout. The old man taught his boy, amid the secluded glens, or upon the naked hill-tops, to modulate his voice to the hymns consecrated to religion throughout Scotland; the rich melody of the "Old Hundred," or the "Martyrs," rose in concert from their lips; or, perhaps the aged shepherd played on the simple Scottish flageolet, on which he had been, in his youth, a skilful performer, some of the touching airs of his mother-land, and then, placing the pipe in William's hands, assisted him, by kind encouragement or skilful rebuke, to follow out the beautiful strain. Thus they lived together--

"A pair of friends, though one was young, And Matthew seventy-two."

Linked closer and closer together by these sweet natural ties, they were happy, and their affection was the grateful theme of all the inhabitants of the valley.

A little incident which occurred in William's childhood had determined his father to rear him for the ministry. While yet only five years of age, he was found one day by his father, with an old family Bible upon his knee, some of the leaves of which he had torn out, and was arranging after a fashion of his own. On being asked by his father what he was doing, he replied, "That he thought the evangelists differed in some portions of their history, and that he was trying to discover wherein the difference lay."[C] The old man retired with streaming eyes; and from that moment William Riddell was, like Samuel of old, vowed to the service of God.

As he grew in years, he displayed proofs of talent which astonished the shepherd, and filled old David's heart with exultation. Before he was fifteen, there was not a stream nor a legend that belonged to his native hills which he had not celebrated in song. His pen was always ready to assist the shepherd lads in their rustic loves; and the crabbed and grasping little tyrants of the valley had, more than once, winced under his satire or his ridicule. The old man, as we have said, rejoiced in the genius of his son, and had always, in his ample pockets, good store of the young poet's productions, wherewith to regale such of his companions as chose to listen. Rachel, however, with a more prophetic eye, saw, in the vivacity of her boy's nature, the germs of as much grief as joy to himself, and used commonly to shake her head and sigh, while her husband and his friends were convulsed with laughter at some of William's sallies.

At length the period arrived when he was to be sent to college.

I need not attempt to describe the feelings of the family when this little revolution in their domestic life occurred; the quiet but deep anxiety of Rachel--the restless and troubled looks and actions of the old shepherd--and the exulting anticipation of the bright world into which he was about to enter, which William displayed, tempered or repressed, every now and then, by natural sorrow, at leaving the hills and streams where his boyhood had been spent pleasantly, and the dear parents to whom he owed so deep a debt of love. The last words of David to his son, as he stood grasping his hand, at the foot of the glen where the path turns off to the next market town--while big tears stood heavily on his eyelashes, visitants unknown for twenty years--were almost those of Michael to Luke, in Wordsworth's exquisite poem--

"Amid all fear And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou Mayest bear in mind the life thy fathers lived, Who, being innocent, did for that cause Bestir them in good deeds."

The old shepherd and his son had never been separated for a single night--now they parted knowing that many months must elapse before they could behold one another again. It was a bitter moment, though full of the germs of joyful anticipation.

William had taken his farewell embrace, and, with convulsive sobs, had walked hastily away to a little distance; he turned, and beheld his aged father still standing on the spot, with clasped hands uplifted, and eyes fixed intently on his own receding form. He was unable to withstand the sight--he rushed back again, and threw himself, in an agony of affection, upon the old man's neck, weeping--though a manlier heart throbbed not--weeping like a child. But at length they parted; a sadder heart never entered into the solitudes of nature than old David Riddell bore into the mountains on that evening--a purer never left the innocence of the country for the crowded city, than his son carried with him to the metropolis of Scotland.

For four years William attended college during the winter, and remained with his father during the summer months.

It was not that his labour was required by the old man: for he had now amassed a sufficient sum, with his moderate habits, to make him independent; but the sight of William was pleasant to the aged shepherd, among the hills where they had played together, and which were consecrated to their affections. The young student had distinguished himself highly at college, and had gained the esteem, both publicly and privately expressed, of many of his preceptors. His heart was still uncontaminated, his morals pure, and his habits simple, as when he was a boy. It was at this time that Rachel died. As her life had been peaceful, and, upon the whole, happy, so her death-bed was tranquil and resigned. She had rejoiced, with her husband, in the promising career of their son, and, as her dim eyes descried his manly form bent over her in an attitude of deepest grief, she could scarcely but feel her natural sorrow at leaving him quenched in the glad anticipations of his future prospects in life. Yet the misery which his ardent and imaginative nature _might_ inflict upon him was still not shut out from her mind, and almost her last words were to warn him against indulging it too far. She died, and the old shepherd and his son were left to attempt to comfort each other. William was again about to depart to college, and he would fain have had his father to give up his duties, and accompany him to Edinburgh. He dwelt upon his increasing feebleness, his age, already beyond the common lot of man, the solitude to which he would be left, the comfort they would be to each other, if together. To all this the old man replied--

"Comfort, my boy, there is none for me in this world, except in thee. Gradually the circle of my love has been narrowed: first, my own parents, then my children, last, my beloved Rachel, have been swept away; and now thou only art left for my earthly affections to embrace. Gladly for thy sake would I go to the city; but I think these hills could not bear to look on another while I lived--this cottage to shelter another shepherd while I am able to fling my plaid around me. It is a foolish fancy for an old man to cherish, yet I cannot bid it depart. Go, then, alone, my dearest lad, and leave me in these scenes, which have become part of my being, to perform the duties in which my life has been spent. And still remember, William, when temptations assail thee, or bad men would lead thee by the cords of vanity or friendship into vice, that there is a grey-haired man among these hills, whom the tale would send in sorrow to the grave--a heart that for twenty years has been fed by its love for thee, which would break to know thou hadst become unworthy of that love. Farewell! and may that good Being who has brought me in safety out of the heart of a thousand storms preserve thee from the deadlier tempests of the world of vice!"