|
AN OUTLINE BY E. T. M'L.
WHEN a school-girl I was
standing one afternoon in the lobby at Arthur Lodge, talking to Jane Brown,
my newest school friend. No doubt we had much that was important to say to
one another, and took small notice of what doors were opened or shut, or
what footsteps came near. I remember no approaching sound, when suddenly my
arm was firmly grasped from behind, and "What wretch is this" was asked in a
quiet, distinctive tone of voice.
The words were sufficiently
alarming, but I had no sense of fear, for my upturned eyes looked into a
face that told of gentleness as truly as of penetration and fun, and I knew
as if by instinct that this was Jane's "Brother John," a doctor whom
everybody liked. There was no "Rab and his Friends " as yet. I must have
stood quite still, looking up at him, and so making his acquaintance, for I
know it was Jane who answered his question, telling him who I was and where
I lived. "Ah! " he said, "I know her father; he is a very good man, a great
deal better than . .. , in whom he believes." He asked me if I was going
into town, and hearing I was said, "I'll drive you in." He took no notice of
me as we walked down to the small side gate, and I was plunged in thought at
the idea of driving home in a doctor's carriage. We soon reached said
carriage, and my foot was on the step, when again my arm was seized, and
this time, "Are you a Homeopathist?" was demanded. I stoutly answered "Yes,"
for I thought I must not sail or drive under false colors. "Indeed! they go
outside," was his reply. This was too much for me; so, shaking myself free I
said, "No, they don't, they can walk." He smiled, looked me rapidly all over
from head to foot, and then said in the same quiet voice, "For that I'II
take you in" — and in I went.
He asked me a little about
school, but did not talk much, and I remember with a kind of awe, that I saw
him lean back and shut his eyes. I did not then know how characteristic of
him at times this attitude was, but I felt relieved that no speaking was
expected. He brought me home, came in and saw my mother, and before he left
had established a friendly footing all around. And so began a friendship —
for he allowed me to call it that — the remembrance of which is a possession
forever.
Many years after, when one
day he spoke of driving with him as if it were only a dull thing to do, I
told him that when he asked me I always came most gladly, and that I looked
upon it as "a means of grace." He smiled, but shook his head rather sadly,
and I was afraid I had ventured too far. We did not refer to it again, but
weeks after he came up to me in the dining-room at Rutland Street, and
without one introductory remark, said, "Means of grace to-morrow at
half-past two."
And means of grace it was
then and always. I remember that afternoon distinctly, and could write down
recollections of it. But what words can convey any idea of the sense of
pleasure that intercourse with him always gave? It brought intensifying of
life within and around one, and the feeling of being understood, of being
over-estimated, and yet this over-estimation only led to humility and
aspiration. His kindly insight seemed to fasten rather on what might yet be,
than what already was, and so led one on to hope and strive. "I'll try to be
good," must have been the unspoken resolve of many a heart, after being with
him, though no one more seldom gave what is called distinctively "good
advice," medical excepted.
It was to Colinton House he
was going that afternoon. As we drove along, sometimes there were long
silences, then gleams of the veriest nonsense and fun, and then perhaps some
true words of far-stretching meaning. The day was one of those in late
winter that break upon us suddenly without any prelude, deluding us into
believing that spring has come, cheering, but saddening too, in their
passing brightness. As we neared the Pentlands he spoke of how he knew them
in every aspect, and specially noticed the extreme clearness and stillness
of the atmosphere, quoting those lines which he liked so much,
"Winter, slumbering in the
open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of spring."
and ending with a sigh for
"poor Coleridge, so wonderful and so sad." After his visit to the house lie
took me to the garden, where he had a quiet, droll talk with the gardener,
introducing me to him as the Countess of something or other. The gardener
took the Countess's visit very quietly — he seemed to understand the
introduction. I remember the interview ended abruptly by Dr. Brown pulling
out the gardener's watch instead of his own. Looking at it, lie replaced it
carefully, and, without a word said, he walked away. As we were leaving the
garden he stopped for a moment opposite a bed of violets, and quoted the
lines,
"Violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes;"
then, after a minute, "What a
creature he was, beyond all words!"
I think it was the same
afternoon that, in driving home, he spoke of the difficulty we had in
recalling, so vividly as to hear it once more, the voice of one who is gone.
He said, "You can see the face," and, putting out his hand, "you can feel
their touch, but to hear the voice is to me most difficult of all." Then,
after a pause, he said, "For three months I tried to hear her voice, and
could not; but at last it came, — one word brought it back." He was going to
say the word, and then he stopped and said, "No, it might spoil it." I told
him I could recall very vividly the only time I spoke to Mrs. Brown. He
asked me to tell him about it, and I did. The next day I met him out at
dinner, and by rare good fortune sat next him. We had only been seated a
minute or two when he turned to me and said, "What you told me about her
yesterday has been like a silver thread running through the day."
At one time he drove to
Colinton two or three times a week, and knew each separate tree on the road
or stone in the wall, and on suddenly opening his eyes could tell within a
yard or two what part of the road he had reached. For if it were true that
he often closed his eyes as if to shut out sad thoughts, or, as in listening
to music, to intensify the impression, it was also true that no keener
observer ever lived. Nothing escaped him, and to his sensitive nature the
merest passing incident on the street became a source of joy or sorrow,
while in the same way his keen sense of humor had endless play. Once, when
driving, he suddenly stopped in the middle of a sentence, and looked out
eagerly at the back of the carriage. "Is it some one you know?" I asked.
"No," he said, "it's a dog I don't know." Another day, pointing out a man
who was passing, I asked him if he could tell me his name. He merely glanced
at him, and then said, "No, I never saw him before, but I can tell you what
he is -- a deposed Established Church minister." Soon after I heard that
this was an exact description of the man.
He often used to say that he
knew every one in Edinburgh except a few new-comers, and to walk Princes
Street with him was to realize that this was nearly a literal fact. How he
rejoiced in the beauty of Edinburgh! "She is a glorious creature," he said
one day, as he looked toward the Castle rock, and then along the beautiful,
familiar street shining in the intense, sudden brightness that follows a
heavy spring shower; "her sole duty is to let herself be seen." He generally
drove, but when he walked it was in leisurely fashion, as if not unwilling
to be arrested. To some he spoke for a moment, and, though only for a
moment, he seemed to send them on their way rejoicing; to others he nodded,
to some he merely gave a smile in passing, but in each case it was a
distinctive recognition, and felt to be such. He did not always raise his
hat, and sometimes he did not even touch it; and when laughingly accused of
this, he would say, "My nods are on the principle that my hat is chronically
lifted, at least to all women, and from that I proceed to something more
friendly."
Once, on meeting a very
ceremonious lady, his hat was undoubtedly raised, and, when she had passed,
he said, "I would defy any man in creation to keep his hat near his head at
the approach of that Being." He was anything but careless as to small
matters of ceremony, but then with hint that ceased to be mere ceremony, and
represented something real. His invariable habit of going to the door with
each visitor sprang from the true kindliness of his nature. Often the very
spirit of exhilaration was thrown into his parting smile, or into the witty
saying, shot after the retreating figure, compelling a turning round for a
last look — exhilaration to his friend; but any one who knew him well felt
sure that, as he gently closed the door, the smile would fade, and be
succeeded by that look of meditative pensiveness, so characteristic of him
when not actually speaking or listening. He often spoke of "unexpectedness"
as having a charm, and he had it himself in a very unusual degree. Anything
like genuine spontaneity he hailed with all his heart. "Drive this lady to
Muttonhole"—it was an address he often gave — he said to a cabman, late one
evening. "Ay, Doctor, I'll dae that," the man answered, as he vigorously
closed the door and prepared to mount without waiting for further
instructions, knowing well what doctor he had to deal with. "You're a
capital fellow," Dr. Brown said; "what's your name?" And doubtless there
would be a kindly recognition of the man ever after.
In going to see him, his
friends never knew what style of greeting was in store for them, for he had
no formal method; each thing he said and did was an exact reflection of the
moment's mood, and so it was a true expression of his character. That it
would be a hearty greeting, if he were well, they knew; for when able for
it, he did enjoy the coming and going of friends. At lunch time he might
often be met in the lobby on one of his many expeditions to the door, the
ring of the coining guest suggesting to the one in possession that he, or
possibly she, must depart; and when encountered there, sometimes a droll
introduction of the friends to one another would take place. Often he sat in
the dining-room at the foot of the table with his back to the door, and
resolutely kept his eyes shut until his outstretched hand was clasped.
But perhaps the time and
place his friends will most naturally recall in thinking of him, is a winter
afternoon, the gas lighted, the fire burning clearly, and he seated in his
own chair in the drawing-room (that room that was so true a reflection of
his character), the evening paper in his hand, but not so deeply interested
in it as not to be quite willing to lay it down. If he were reading, and you
were unannounced, you had almost reached his chair before the adjustment of
his spectacles allowed him to recognize who had come; and the bright look,
followed by, "It's you, is it?" was something to remember. The summary of
the daily news of the town was brought to him at this hour, and the varied
characters of those who brought it out put him in possession of all shades
of opinion, and enabled him to look at things from every point of view. If
there had been a racy lecture, or one with some absurdities in it, or a good
concert, a rush would be made to Rutland Street to tell Dr. Brown, and no
touch of enthusiasm or humor in the narration was thrown away upon him.
One other time will be
remembered. In the evening after dinner, when again seated in his own chair,
he would read aloud short passages from the book he was specially interested
in (and there was always one that occupied his thoughts chiefly for the
time), or would listen to music, or would lead pleasant talk. Or later
still, when, the work of the day over, and all interruptions at an end, he
went up to the smoking-room (surely he was a very mild smoker!), and giving
himself up entirely to the friends who happened to be with him, was — all
those who knew him best now gladly and sorrowfully remember, but can never
explain, not even to themselves.
In trying to describe any
one, it is usual to speak of his manner; but that word applied to Dr. Brown
seems almost unnatural, for manner is considered as a thing more or less
consciously acquired, but thought of apart from the man. Now in this sense
of the word he had no manner, for his manner was himself, the visible and
audible expression of his whole nature. One has only to picture the
ludicrousness as well as hopelessness of any imitation of it, to know that
it was simply his own, and to realize this is to feel in some degree the
entire truthfulness of his character: "If, therefore, thine eye be single,
thy whole body shall be full of light." Perhaps no one who enjoyed mirth so
thoroughly, or was so much the cause of it in others, ever had a quieter
bearing. He had naturally a low tone of voice, and he seldom raised it. He
never shouted any one down, and did not fight for a place in the arena of
talk, but his calm, honest tones claimed attention, and way was gladly made
for him. "He acts as a magnet in a room," was sometimes said, and it was
true; gently, but surely, he became the centre of whatever company he was
in.
When one thinks of it, it was
by his smile and his smile alone (sometimes a deliberate "Capital!" was
added), that he showed his relish for what was told him; and yet how
unmistakable that relish was! "I will tell Dr. Brown," was the thought that
came first to his friends on hearing anything genuine, pathetic, or queer,
and the gleam as of sunlight that shone in his eyes, and played round his
sensitive mouth as he listened, acted as an inspiration, so that friends and
even strangers he saw at their best, and their best was better than it would
have been without him. They brought him of their treasure, figuratively and
literally too, for there was not a rare engraving, a copy of an old edition,
a valuable autograph, anything that any one in Edinburgh greatly prized, but
sooner or later it found its way to Rutland Street, "just that Dr. Brown
might see it." It seemed to mean more even to the owner himself when he had
looked at it and enjoyed it.
He was so completely free
from real egotism that in his writings he uses the pronouns "I" and "our"
with perfect fearlessness. His sole aim is to bring himself into sympathy
with his readers, and he chooses the form that will do that most directly.
The most striking instance of this is in his Letter to Dr. Cairns. In no
other way could he so naturally have told what he wishes to tell of his
father and his father's friends. In it he is not addressing the public — a
thing he never did — but writing to a friend, and in that genial atmosphere
thoughts and words flow freely. He says towards the beginning, "Sometimes I
have this" (the idea of his father's life) "so vividly in my mind, that I
think I have only to sit down and write it off, and so it to the quick." He
did sit down and write it off, we know with what result.
Except when clouds darkened
his spirit (which, alas! they too often did), and he looked inwards and saw
no light, he seemed to have neither time nor occasion to think of himself at
all. His whole nature found meat and drink in lovingly watching all mankind,
men, women, and children, the lower animals, too — only he seldom spoke of
them as lower, he thought of them as complete in themselves. "Look at that
creature," he said on a bright, sunny day as a cab-horse passed, prancing
considerably and rearing his head; "that's delightful; he's happy in the
sunshine, and wishes to be looked at; just like some of us here on the
pavement." How many of us on the pavement find delight in the ongoings of a
cab-horse? His dog, seated opposite him one day in the carriage, suddenly
made a bolt and disappeared at the open window. "An acquaintance must have
passed whom he wished to speak to," was Dr. Brown's explanation of his
unexpected exit.
In The Imitation it is said,
"If thy heart were sincere and upright, then every creature would be unto
thee a looking-glass of life." It was so with Dr. Brown. His quick sympathy
was truly personal in each case, but it did not end there. It gladdened him
to call forth the child's merry laugh, for his heart expanded with the
thought that joy was worldwide; and in the same way sorrow saddened him, for
it too was everywhere. He discovered with keenest insight all that lay below
the surface, dwelling on the good, and bringing it to the light, while from
what was bad or hopelessly foolish he simply turned aside. He had friends in
all ranks of life, "from the peasant to the peer," as the phrase is, and
higher. He was constantly forming links with those whom he met, and they
were links that held fast, for he never forgot any one with whom he had had
real contact of spirit, and the way in which he formed this contact was
perhaps the most wonderful thing about him. A word, a look, would put him in
possession of all that was best and truest in a character. And it was
character that he thought of; surroundings were very secondary with him.
Though he thoroughly appreciated a beautiful setting, the want of it did not
repel him. "Come and see a first-rate man," he said to me one day as he met
me at the door. And here in the dining-room stood a stalwart countryman,
clad in rough homespun, with a brightly-colored "cravat" about his neck, his
face glowing with pleasure as his friend (for he evidently considered Dr.
Brown his friend) looked up at him. They had met that morning, when the man
came asking admission for a child to the Infirmary, and now he had returned
to report his success. The look of keen and kindly interest with which every
word was listened to might well encourage him to "go on," as he was
frequently told to do. "The wife" figured now and then in the narration, and
as he rose to go, the beaming look with which Dr. Brown said, "And you're
fond of your wife?" was met by a broad smile of satisfaction, and "aye, I'm
fond o' her," followed by a hearty shake of the hand. "His feelings are as
delicate as his body is big," was Dr. Brown's remark as he returned to the
room after going with him to the door.
It is Ruskin who says, "The
greatest thing a human soul ever does is to see something, and tell what it
saw in a plain way. To see clearly is poetry, prophecy, and religion all in
one." Dr. Brown was constantly seeing what others did not see, and the
desire to tell it, to make others share his feelings, forced him to write,
or made it impossible for him to do so when not in writing mood. To
prescribe a subject to him was useless, and worse. What truer or shorter
explanation can be given of the fascination of Rab and his Friends than that
in James, in Ailie, and in Rab he "saw something" that others did not see,
and told what he saw in "a plain way,"— in a perfect way, too. "Wasn't she a
grand little creature?" he said about "Marjorie," only a few months before
his death. "And grand that you have made thousands know her, and love her,
after she has been in heaven for seventy years and more," was the answer.
"Yes, I am glad," he said, and he looked it too. He was not thinking of
Marjorie Fleming one of his literary productions, as it would be called, but
of the bright, eager child herself.
But the words he applied to
Dr. Chalmers are true as regards myself: "'We cannot now go very curiously
to work to scrutinize the composition of his character: we cannot take that
large, free, genial nature to pieces, and weigh this and measure that, and
sum up and pronounce; we are so near as yet to him and to his loss, he is
too dear to us to be so handled. 'His death,' to use the pathetic words of
Hartley Coleridge, 'is a recent sorrow, his image still lives in eyes that
weep for him."' Though necessarily all his life coming into close contact
with sickness and death, he never became accustomed, as so many seem to do,
to their sorrowfulness and mystery, and the tear and wear of spirit involved
in so many of his patients being also his close personal friends, was,
without doubt, a cause of real injury to his own health.
I shall never forget the
expression of his face as he stood looking at his friend Sir George Harvey,
for the last time. He had sat for a long while holding the nearly pulseless
wrist, then he rose, and with folded hands stood looking down earnestly on
the face already stamped with the nobility of death, his own nearly as pale,
but wearing, too, the traces of care and sorrow which had now forever
vanished from his friend's. For many minutes he stood quite still as if rapt
in thought; then slowly stooping, he reverently kissed the brow, and
silently, without speaking one word, he left the room.
I have spoken of the first
time I saw him; shall I tell of the last — of that wet, dreary Sunday, so
unlike a day in spring, when with the church bells ringing, John took me up
to his room, and left me there? He was sitting up in bed, but looked weaker
than one would have expected after only two days' illness, and twice
pointing to his chest, he said, "I know this is something vital;" and then
musingly, almost as if he were speaking of some one else, "It's sad, Cecy,
isn't it?" But he got much brighter after a minute or two, noticed some
change in my dress, approved of it, then asked if I had been to church, and,
"What was the text?" smiling as he did so, as if he half expected I had
forgotten it. I told him, "In the world ye shall have tribulation; but be of
good cheer, I have overcome the world." "Wonderful words," he said, folding
his hands and closing his eyes, and repeated slowly, "Be of good cheer;"
then, after a pause, "And from Him, our Saviour." In a minute or two I rose,
fearing to stay too long, but he looked surprised, and asked me what I meant
by going so soon. So I sat down again. He asked me what books I was reading,
and I told him, and he spoke a little of them. Then suddenly, as if it had
just flashed upon him, he said "Ah! I have done nothing to your brother's
papers but look at them, and felt the material was splendid, and now it is
too late." Some months before, when he was exceedingly well and cheerful, he
had told me to bring him two manuscript books I had once shown him, saying,
"I have often felt I could write about him, as good a text as Arthur Hallam."
I told him it would be the greatest boon were he to do it; but he warned me
not to hope too much. After a few minutes, again I rose to go. His "Thank
you for coming," I answered by, "Thank you for letting me come;" and then,
yielding to a sudden impulse, for I seldom ventured on such ground, I added,
"And I can never half thank you for all you have been to me all these
years." "No, you must n't thank me," he said sadly, and a word or two more,
"but remember me when you pray to God." I answered more by look and clasp of
his hand than by word; but he did feel that I had answered him, for "That
night," he said firmly, his face brightening, and as I reached the door,
"Come again soon."
The next time I was in that
room, four days after, it was to look on "that beautiful sealed face," and
to feel that the pure in heart had seen God. Sir George Harvey once said, "I
like to think what the first glint of heaven will be to John Brown." He has
got it now. What more can or need we say? |
