David Elginbrod

Knowledge bloweth up, but charity buildeth up

LORD BACON’S rendering of 1 Cor. viii. I. Things went on as usual for a few days, when Hugh began to encounter a source of suffering of a very material and unromantic kind, but which, nevertheless, had been able before now, namely, at the commencement of his tutorship, to cause him a very sufficient degree of distress. It was this; that he had no room in which he could pursue his studies in private, without having to endure a most undesirable degree of cold. In summer this was a matter of little moment, for the universe might then be his secret chamber; but in a Scotch spring or autumn, not to say winter, a bedroom without a fire-place, which, strange to say, was the condition of his, was not a study in which thought could operate to much satisfactory result. Indeed, pain is a far less hurtful enemy to thinking than cold. And to have to fight such suffering and its benumbing influences, as well as to follow out a train of reasoning, difficult at any time, and requiring close attention—is too much for any machine whose thinking wheels are driven by nervous gear. Sometimes—for he must make the attempt—he came down to his meals quite blue with cold, as his pupils remarked to their mother; but their observation never seemed to suggest to her mind the necessity of making some better provision for the poor tutor. And Hugh, after the way in which she had behaved to him, was far too proud to ask her a favour, even if he had had hopes of receiving his request. He knew, too, that, in the house, the laird, to interfere in the smallest degree, must imperil far more than he dared. The prospect, therefore, of the coming winter, in a country where there was scarcely any afternoon, and where the snow might lie feet deep for weeks, was not at all agreeable. He had, as I have said, begun to suffer already, for the mornings and evenings were cold enough now, although it was a bright, dry October. One evening Janet remarked that he had caught cold, for he was ‘hostin’ sair;’ and this led Hugh to state the discomfort he was condemned to experience up at the ha’ house.

“Weel,” said David, after some silent deliberation, “that sattles’t; we maun set aboot it immedantly.”

Of course Hugh was quite at a loss to understand what he meant, and begged him to explain.

“Ye see,” replied David, “we hae verra little hoose-room i’ this bit cot; for, excep this kitchen, we hae but the ben whaur Janet and me sleeps; and sae last year I spak’ to the laird to lat me hae muckle timmer as I wad need to big a kin’ o’ a lean-to to the house ahin’, so ‘at we micht hae a kin’ o’ a bit parlour like, or rather a roomie ‘at ony o’ us micht retire till for a bit, gin we wanted to be oor lanes. He had nae objections, honest man. But somehoo or ither I never sat han’ till’t; but noo the wa’s maun be up afore the wat weather sets in. Sae I’se be at it the morn, an’ maybe ye’ll len’ me a han’, Mr. Sutherlan’, and tak’ oot yer wages in house-room an’ firin’ efter it’s dune.”

“Thank you heartily!” said Hugh; “that would be delightful. It seems too good to be possible. But will not wooden walls be rather a poor protection against such winters as I suppose you have in these parts?”

“Hootoot, Mr. Sutherlan’, ye micht gie me credit for raither mair rumgumption nor that comes till. Timmer was the only thing I not (needed) to spier for; the lave lies to ony body’s han’—a few cart-fu’s o’ sods frae the hill ahint the hoose, an’ a han’fu’ or twa o’ stanes for the chimla oot o’ the quarry—there’s eneuch there for oor turn ohn blastit mair; an’ we’ll saw the wood oorsels; an’ gin we had ance the wa’s up, we can carry on the inside at oor leisur’. That’s the way ‘at the Maker does wi’ oorsels; he gie’s us the wa’s an’ the material, an’ a whole lifetime, maybe mair, to furnish the house.”

“Capital!” exclaimed Hugh. “I’ll work like a horse, and we’ll be at it the morn.”

“I’se be at it afore daylicht, an’ ane or twa o’ the lads’ll len’ me a han’ efter wark-hours; and there’s yersel’, Mr. Sutherlan’, worth ane an’ a half o’ ordinary workers; an’ we’ll hae truff aneuch for the wa’s in a jiffey. I’ll mark a feow saplin’s i’ the wud here at denner-time, an’ we’ll hae them for bauks, an’ couples, an’ things; an’ there’s plenty dry eneuch for beurds i’ the shed, an’ bein’ but a lean-to, there’ll be but half wark, ye ken.”

They went out directly, in the moonlight, to choose the spot; and soon came to the resolution to build it so, that a certain back door, which added more to the cold in winter than to the convenience in summer, should be the entrance to the new chamber. The chimney was the chief difficulty; but all the materials being in the immediate neighbourhood, and David capable of turning his hands to anything, no obstruction was feared. Indeed, he set about that part first, as was necessary; and had soon built a small chimney, chiefly of stones and lime; while, under his directions, the walls were making progress at the same time, by the labour of Hugh and two or three of the young men from the farm, who were most ready to oblige David with their help, although they were still rather unfriendly to the colliginer, as they called him. But Hugh’s frankness soon won them over, and they all formed within a day or two a very comfortable party of labourers. They worked very hard; for if the rain should set in before the roof was on, their labour would be almost lost from the soaking of the walls. They built them of turf, very thick, with a slight slope on the outside towards the roof; before commencing which, they partially cut the windows out of the walls, putting wood across to support the top. I should have explained that the turf used in building was the upper and coarser part of the peat, which was plentiful in the neighbourhood. The thatch-eaves of the cottage itself projected over the joining of the new roof, so as to protect it from the drip; and David soon put a thick thatch of new straw upon the little building. Second-hand windows were procured at the village, and the holes in the walls cut to their size. They next proceeded to the saw-pit on the estate—for almost everything necessary for keeping up the offices was done on the farm itself—where they sawed thin planks of deal, to floor and line the room, and make it more cosie. These David planed upon one side; and when they were nailed against slight posts all round the walls, and the joints filled in with putty, the room began to look most enticingly habitable. The roof had not been thatched two days before the rain set in; but now they could work quite comfortably inside; and as the space was small, and the forenights were long, they had it quite finished before the end of November. David bought an old table in the village, and one or two chairs; mended them up; made a kind of rustic sofa or settle; put a few bookshelves against the wall; had a peat fire lighted on the hearth every day; and at length, one Saturday evening, they had supper in the room, and the place was consecrated henceforth to friendship and learning. From this time, every evening, as soon as lessons, and the meal which immediately followed them, were over, Hugh betook himself to the cottage, on the shelves of which all his books by degrees collected themselves; and there spent the whole long evening, generally till ten o’clock; the first part alone reading or writing; the last in company with his pupils, who, diligent as ever, now of course made more rapid progress than before, inasmuch as the lessons were both longer and more frequent. The only drawback to their comfort was, that they seemed to have shut Janet out; but she soon remedied this, by contriving to get through with her house work earlier than she had ever done before; and, taking her place on the settle behind them, knitted away diligently at her stocking, which, to inexperienced eyes, seemed always the same, and always in the same state of progress, notwithstanding that she provided the hose of the whole family, blue and grey, ribbed and plain. Her occasional withdrawings, to observe the progress of the supper, were only a cheerful break in the continuity of labour. Little would the passer-by imagine that beneath that roof, which seemed worthy only of the name of a shed, there sat, in a snug little homely room, such a youth as Hugh, such a girl as Margaret, such a grand peasant king as David, and such a true-hearted mother to them all as Janet. There were no pictures and no music; for Margaret kept her songs for solitary places; but the sound of verse was often the living wind which set a-waving the tops of the trees of knowledge, fast growing in the sunlight of Truth. The thatch of that shed-roof was like the grizzled hair of David, beneath which lay the temple not only of holy but of wise and poetic thought. It was like the sylvan abode of the gods, where the architecture and music are all of their own making, in their kind the more beautiful, the more simple and rude; and if more doubtful in their intent, and less precise in their finish, yet therein the fuller of life and its grace, and the more suggestive of deeper harmonies.

CHAPTER XIII. HERALDRY

And like his father of face and of stature, And false of love—it came him of nature; As doth the fox Renard, the fox’s son; Of kinde, he coud his old father’s wone, Without lore, as can a drake swim, When it is caught, and carried to the brim.

    CHAUCER.—Legend of Phillis.

Of course, the yet more lengthened absences of Hugh from the house were subjects of remark as at the first; but Hugh had made up his mind not to trouble himself the least about that. For some time Mrs. Glasford took no notice of them to himself; but one evening, just as tea was finished, and Hugh was rising to go, her restraint gave way, and she uttered one spiteful speech, thinking it, no doubt, so witty that it ought to see the light.

“Ye’re a day-labourer it seems, Mr. Sutherlan’, and gang hame at night.”

“Exactly so, madam,” rejoined Hugh. “There is no other relation between you and me, than that of work and wages. You have done your best to convince me of that, by making it impossible for me to feel that this house is in any sense my home.”

With this grand speech he left the room, and from that time till the day of his final departure from Turriepuffit, there was not a single allusion made to the subject.

He soon reached the cottage. When he entered the new room, which was always called Mr. Sutherland’s study, the mute welcome afforded him by the signs of expectation, in the glow of the waiting fire, and the outspread arms of the elbow-chair, which was now called his, as well as the room, made ample amends to him for the unfriendliness of Mrs. Glasford. Going to the shelves to find the books he wanted, he saw that they had been carefully arranged on one shelf, and that the others were occupied with books belonging to the house. He looked at a few of them. They were almost all old books, and such as may be found in many Scotch cottages; for instance, Boston’s Fourfold State, in which the ways of God and man may be seen through a fourfold fog; Erskine’s Divine Sonnets, which will repay the reader in laughter for the pain it costs his reverence, producing much the same effect that a Gothic cathedral might, reproduced by the pencil and from the remembrance of a Chinese artist, who had seen it once; Drelincourt on Death, with the famous ghost-hoax of De Foe, to help the bookseller to the sale of the unsaleable; the Scots Worthies, opening of itself at the memoir of Mr. Alexander Peden; the Pilgrim’s Progress, that wonderful inspiration, failing never save when the theologian would sometimes snatch the pen from the hand of the poet; Theron and Aspasio; Village Dialogues; and others of a like class. To these must be added a rare edition of Blind Harry. It was clear to Hugh, unable as he was fully to appreciate the wisdom of David, that it was not from such books as these that he had gathered it; yet such books as these formed all his store. He turned from them, found his own, and sat down to read. By and by David came in.

“I’m ower sune, I doubt, Mr. Sutherlan’. I’m disturbin’ ye.”

“Not at all,” answered Hugh. “Besides, I am not much in a reading mood this evening: Mrs. Glasford has been annoying me again.”

“Poor body! What’s she been sayin’ noo?”

Thinking to amuse David, Hugh recounted the short passage between them recorded above. David, however, listened with a very different expression of countenance from what Hugh had anticipated; and, when he had finished, took up the conversation in a kind of apologetic tone.

“Weel, but ye see,” said he, folding his palms together, “she hasna’ jist had a’thegither fair play. She does na come o’ a guid breed. Man, it’s a fine thing to come o’ a guid breed. They hae a hantle to answer for ‘at come o’ decent forbears.”

“I thought she brought the laird a good property,” said Hugh, not quite understanding David.

“Ow, ay, she brocht him gowpenfu’s o’ siller; but hoo was’t gotten? An’ ye ken it’s no riches ‘at ‘ill mak’ a guid breed—‘cep’ it be o’ maggots. The richer cheese the mair maggots, ye ken. Ye maunna speyk o’ this; but the mistress’s father was weel kent to hae made his siller by fardins and bawbees, in creepin’, crafty ways. He was a bit merchan’ in Aberdeen, an’ aye keepit his thoom weel ahint the peint o’ the ellwan’, sae ‘at he made an inch or twa upo’ ilka yard he sauld. Sae he took frae his soul, and pat intill his siller-bag, an’ had little to gie his dochter but a guid tocher. Mr. Sutherlan’, it’s a fine thing to come o’ dacent fowk. Noo, to luik at yersel’: I ken naething aboot yer family; but ye seem at eesicht to come o’ a guid breed for the bodily part o’ ye. That’s a sma’ matter; but frae what I ha’e seen—an’ I trust in God I’m no’ mista’en—ye come o’ the richt breed for the min’ as weel. I’m no flatterin’ ye, Mr. Sutherlan’; but jist layin’ it upo’ ye, ‘at gin ye had an honest father and gran’father, an’ especially a guid mither, ye hae a heap to answer for; an’ ye ought never to be hard upo’ them ‘at’s sma’ creepin’ creatures, for they canna help it sae weel as the like o’ you and me can.”

David was not given to boasting. Hugh had never heard anything suggesting it from his lips before. He turned full round and looked at him. On his face lay a solemn quiet, either from a feeling of his own responsibility, or a sense of the excuse that must be made for others. What he had said about the signs of breed in Hugh’s exterior, certainly applied to himself as well. His carriage was full of dignity, and a certain rustic refinement; his voice was wonderfully gentle, but deep; and slowest when most impassioned. He seemed to have come of some gigantic antediluvian breed: there was something of the Titan slumbering about him. He would have been a stern man, but for an unusual amount of reverence that seemed to overflood the sternness, and change it into strong love. No one had ever seen him thoroughly angry; his simple displeasure with any of the labourers, the quality of whose work was deficient, would go further than the laird’s oaths.

Hugh sat looking at David, who supported the look with that perfect calmness that comes of unconscious simplicity. At length Hugh’s eye sank before David’s, as he said:

“I wish I had known your father, then, David.”

“My father was sic a ane as I tauld ye the ither day, Mr. Sutherlan’. I’m a’ richt there. A puir, semple, God-fearin’ shepherd, ‘at never gae his dog an ill-deserved word, nor took the skin o’ ony puir lammie, wha’s woo’ he was clippin’, atween the shears. He was weel worthy o’ the grave ‘at he wan till at last. An’ my mither was jist sic like, wi’ aiblins raither mair heid nor my father. They’re her beuks maistly upo’ the skelf there abune yer ain, Mr. Sutherlan’. I honour them for her sake, though I seldom trouble them mysel’. She gae me a kin’ o’ a scunner at them, honest woman, wi’ garrin’ me read at them o’ Sundays, till they near scomfisht a’ the guid ‘at was in me by nater. There’s doctrine for ye, Mr. Sutherlan’!” added David, with a queer laugh.

“I thought they could hardly be your books,” said Hugh.

“But I hae ae odd beuk, an’ that brings me upo’ my pedigree, Mr. Sutherlan’; for the puirest man has as lang a pedigree as the greatest, only he kens less aboot it, that’s a’. An’ I wat, for yer lords and ladies, it’s no a’ to their credit ‘at’s tauld o’ their hither-come; an’ that’s a’ against the breed, ye ken. A wilfu’ sin in the father may be a sinfu’ weakness i’ the son; an’ that’s what I ca’ no fair play.”

So saying, David went to his bedroom, whence he returned with a very old-looking book, which he laid on the table before Hugh. He opened it, and saw that it was a volume of Jacob Boehmen, in the original language. He found out afterwards, upon further inquiry, that it was in fact a copy of the first edition of his first work, The Aurora, printed in 1612. On the title-page was written a name, either in German or old English character, he was not sure which; but he was able to read it—Martin Elginbrodde. David, having given him time to see all this, went on:

“That buik has been in oor family far langer nor I ken. I needna say I canna read a word o’t, nor I never heard o’ ane ‘at could. But I canna help tellin’ ye a curious thing, Mr. Sutherlan’, in connexion wi’ the name on that buik: there’s a gravestane, a verra auld ane—hoo auld I canna weel mak’ out, though I gaed ends-errand to Aberdeen to see’t—an’ the name upo’ that gravestane is Martin Elginbrod, but made mention o’ in a strange fashion; an’ I’m no sure a’thegither aboot hoo ye’ll tak’ it, for it soun’s rather fearsome at first hearin’ o’t. But ye’se hae’t as I read it:

“‘Here lie I, Martin Elginbrodde:
Hae mercy o’ my soul, Lord God;
As I wad do, were I Lord God,
And ye were Martin Elginbrodde.’”

Certainly Hugh could not help a slight shudder at what seemed to him the irreverence of the epitaph, if indeed it was not deserving of a worse epithet. But he made no remark; and, after a moment’s pause, David resumed:

“I was unco ill-pleased wi’t at the first, as ye may suppose, Mr. Sutherlan’; but, after a while, I begude (began) an’ gaed through twa or three bits o’ reasonin’s aboot it, in this way: By the natur’ o’t, this maun be the man’s ain makin’, this epitaph; for no ither body cud ha’ dune’t; and he had left it in’s will to be pitten upo’ the deid-stane, nae doot: I’ the contemplation o’ deith, a man wad no be lik’ly to desire the perpetuation o’ a blasphemy upo’ a table o’ stone, to stan’ against him for centuries i’ the face o’ God an’ man: therefore it cudna ha’ borne the luik to him o’ the presumptuous word o’ a proud man evenin’ himsel’ wi’ the Almichty. Sae what was’t, then, ‘at made him mak’ it? It seems to me—though I confess, Mr. Sutherlan’, I may be led astray by the nateral desire ‘at a man has to think weel o’ his ain forbears—for ‘at he was a forbear o’ my ain, I canna weel doot, the name bein’ by no means a common ane, in Scotland ony way—I’m sayin’, it seems to me, that it’s jist a darin’ way, maybe a childlike way, o’ judgin’, as Job micht ha’ dune, ‘the Lord by himsel’;’ an’ sayin’, ‘at gin he, Martin Elginbrod, wad hae mercy, surely the Lord was not less mercifu’ than he was. The offspring o’ the Most High was, as it were, aware o’ the same spirit i’ the father o’ him, as muved in himsel’. He felt ‘at the mercy in himsel’ was ane o’ the best things; an’ he cudna think ‘at there wad be less o’t i’ the father o’ lichts, frae whom cometh ilka guid an’ perfeck gift. An’ may be he remembered ‘at the Saviour himsel’ said: ‘Be ye perfect as your father in Heaven is perfect;’ and that the perfection o’ God, as He had jist pinted oot afore, consisted in causin’ his bonny sun to shine on the evil an’ the good, an’ his caller rain to fa’ upo’ the just an’ the unjust.”

It may well be doubted whether David’s interpretation of the epitaph was the correct one. It will appear to most of my readers to breathe rather of doubt lighted up by hope, than of that strong faith which David read in it. But whether from family partiality, and consequent unwillingness to believe that his ancestor had been a man who, having led a wild, erring, and evil life, turned at last towards the mercy of God as his only hope, which the words might imply; or simply that he saw this meaning to be the best; this was the interpretation which David had adopted.

“But,” interposed Hugh, “supposing he thought all that, why should he therefore have it carved on his tombstone?”

“I hae thocht aboot that too,” answered David. “For ae thing, a body has but feow ways o’ sayin’ his say to his brithermen. Robbie Burns cud do’t in sang efter sang; but maybe this epitaph was a’ that auld Martin was able to mak’. He michtna hae had the gift o’ utterance. But there may be mair in’t nor that. Gin the clergy o’ thae times warna a gey hantle mair enlichtened nor a fowth o’ the clergy hereabouts, he wad hae heard a heap aboot the glory o’ God, as the thing ‘at God himsel’ was maist anxious aboot uphaudin’, jist like a prood creater o’ a king; an’ that he wad mak’ men, an’ feed them, an’ cleed them, an’ gie them braw wives an’ toddlin’ bairnies, an’ syne damn them, a’ for’s ain glory. Maybe ye wadna get mony o’ them ‘at wad speyk sae fair-oot noo-a-days, for they gang wi’ the tide jist like the lave; but i’ my auld minny’s buiks, I hae read jilt as muckle as that, an’ waur too. Mony ane ‘at spak like that, had nae doot a guid meanin’ in’t; but, hech man! it’s an awesome deevilich way o’ sayin’ a holy thing. Noo, what better could puir auld Martin do, seein’ he had no ae word to say i’ the kirk a’ his lifelang, nor jist say his ae word, as pithily as might be, i’ the kirkyard, efter he was deid; an’ ower an’ ower again, wi’ a tongue o’ stane, let them tak’ it or lat it alane ‘at likit? That’s a’ my defence o’ my auld luckie-daddy—Heaven rest his brave auld soul!”

“But are we not in danger,” said Hugh, “of thinking too lightly and familiarly of the Maker, when we proceed to judge him so by ourselves?”

“Mr. Sutherlan’,” replied David, very solemnly, “I dinna thenk I can be in muckle danger o’ lichtlyin’ him, whan I ken in my ain sel’, as weel as she ‘at was healed o’ her plague, ‘at I wad be a horse i’ that pleuch, or a pig in that stye, not merely if it was his will—for wha can stan’ against that—but if it was for his glory; ay, an’ comfort mysel’, a’ the time the change was passin’ upo’ me, wi’ the thocht that, efter an’ a’, his blessed han’s made the pigs too.”

“But, a moment ago, David, you seemed to me to be making rather little of his glory.”

“O’ his glory, as they consider glory—ay; efter a warldly fashion that’s no better nor pride, an’ in him would only be a greater pride. But his glory! consistin’ in his trowth an’ lovin’kindness—(man! that’s a bonny word)—an’ grand self-forgettin’ devotion to his creaters—lord! man, it’s unspeakable. I care little for his glory either, gin by that ye mean the praise o’ men. A heap o’ the anxiety for the spread o’ his glory, seems to me to be but a desire for the sempathy o’ ither fowk. There’s no fear but men ‘ll praise him, a’ in guid time—that is, whan they can. But, Mr. Sutherlan’, for the glory o’ God, raither than, if it were possible, one jot or one tittle should fail of his entire perfection of holy beauty, I call God to witness, I would gladly go to hell itsel’; for no evil worth the full name can befall the earth or ony creater in’t, as long as God is what he is. For the glory o’ God, Mr. Sutherlan’, I wad die the deith. For the will o’ God, I’m ready for onything he likes. I canna surely be in muckle danger o’ lichtlyin’ him. I glory in my God.”

The almost passionate earnestness with which David spoke, would alone have made it impossible for Hugh to reply at once. After a few moments, however, he ventured to ask the question:

“Would you do nothing that other people should know God, then, David?”

“Onything ‘at he likes. But I would tak’ tent o’ interferin’. He’s at it himsel’ frae mornin’ to nicht, frae year’s en’ to year’s en’.”

“But you seem to me to make out that God is nothing but love!”

“Ay, naething but love. What for no?”