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THE parish schoolmaster
of the past belonged to a class of men and to an institution peculiar to
Scotland. Between him and the parish clergyman there was a close
alliance formed by many links. The homes and incomes of both, though of
very unequal value, were secured by Act of Parliament, and provided by
the heritors of the parish. Both held their appointments for life, and
could be deprived of them only for heresy or immorality, and that by the
same kind of formal "libel," and trial before the same ecclesiastical
court. Both were members of the same church, and had to subscribe the
same confession of faith ; both might have attended the same university,
nay, passed through the same curriculum of eight years of preparatory
study for the ministry.
The schoolmaster was thus
a sort of prebendary or minor canon in the parish cathedral—a teaching
presbyter and coadjutor to his preaching brother. In many cases "the
master" was possessed of very considerable scholarship and culture, and
was invariably required to be able to prepare young men for the Scotch
universities, by instructing them in the elements of Greek, Latin, and
Mathematics. He was by education more fitted than any of his own rank in
the parish to associate with the minister. Besides, he was generally an
elder of the church, and the clerk of the kirk session; and, in addition
to all these ties, the school was usually in close proximity to the
church and manse. The master thus became the minister's right hand and
confidential adviser, and the worthies often met. If the minister was a
bachelor—a melancholy spectacle too often seen! —the schoolmaster more
than any other neighbour cheered him in his loneliness. He knew all the
peculiarities of his diocesan, and especially when he might "step up to
the manse for a chat" without being thought intrusive. If, for example,
it was Monday—the minister's Sunday of rest—and if the day was wet, the
roads muddy, the trees dripping, the hens miserable, and seeking shelter
under carts in the farmyard, he knew well that ere evening came, the
minister would be glad to hear his rap breaking the stilhless of the
manse. Seated together in the small study before a cheerful fire, they
would then discuss many delicate questions affecting the manners or
morals of the flock, and talk about the ongoings of the parish, its
births, marriages, and deaths; about its poor, sick, or dying sufferers;
about the state of the crops, and the expectation of good or bad "Fiars
prices," and the consequent prospects of good or bad stipends, which
these regulated. The chances of repairs or additions being obtained for
manse, church, or school, would also be considered; preachers and
preachings criticised; Church and State politics discussed --both being
out-and-out Tories; knotty theological points argued connected with
Calvinism or Arminianism; with all the minor and more evanescent
controversies of the hour. Or, if the evening was fine, they would
perhaps walk in the garden to examine the flowers and the vegetables,
and dander over the glebe to inspect the latast improvements, when the
master was sure to hear bitter complaints of the laziness of "the
minister's man" John, who had been threatened to be turned off for
years, but who took the threats with about as much ease of mind as he
did his work. Before parting, they probably partook of a humble supper
of eggs and toasted cheese, soft as thick cream, washed down by one
glass of Edinburgh ale, or, to be perfectly honest, one tumbler of
whisky toddy, when old Jenny was told to be sure that the water was
boiling.
A schoolmaster who had
received . licence to preach, and who consequently might be presented to
a parish, if he could get one, belonged to the aristocracy of his
profession. Not that he lived in a better house than his unlicensed
brother, or received higher emoluments, or wore garments less japanned
from polished old age. But the man in the pulpit was greater than the
man in the school, addressed larger pupils, and had larger prospects.
Among those schoolmasters
who were also preachers. it would have been possible, I daresay, to have
found a specimen occasionally of the Dominic Sampson type, with
peculiarities and eccentricities which easily accounted for his failure
as a preacher, and his equally remarkable want of success as a teacher.
There were also a few, perhaps, who had soured tempers, and were often
crabbed and cross within school and out of it. But let us not be too
severe on the poor Dominic! He had missed a church from want of a
patron, and, it must be acknowledged, from want of the gift of
preaching, which he bitterly termed "the gift of the gab." In college he
had taken the first rank in his classes: and no wonder, then, if he was
a little mortified in seeing an old acquaintance who had been a
notorious dunce obtain a good living through some of those subtle and
influential local or political agencies, or the "pow'r o' speech i' the
poopit," neither of which he could command, and who, when preferred,
became oleaginous on the tiends, and slowly jogged along the smooth road
of life on a punchy, sleek horse, troubled chiefly about the great
number of his children and the small number of his "chalders." It is no
wonder, I say, that the disappointed Dominic was mortified at this,
compelled as he was, poor fellow, to whip his way, tawse in hand,
through the mud of A B C, and syntax, Shorter Catechism, and long
division, on a pittance of some sixty pounds a year. Nay, as it often
happened, the master had a sore at his heart which few knew about. When
he was a tutor long ago in the family of a small laird, lie had, we
shall suppose, fallen in love with the laird's daughter Mary, whose mind
he had first wakened into thought, and first led into the land of
poetry. She was to have married him, but not until he should get a
parish, for the laird would not permit his fair star to move in any
orbit beneath that of the manse circle. And long and often had the
parish been expected, and just when the presentation seemed to be within
his nervous grasp, it had vanished through some unexpected mishap, and
with its departure hope became more deferred, and the heart more sick,
until at last Mary married, and so changed all things to her old lover.
She had not the pluck to stand by the master when the Laird of Blackmoss
was pressing for her hand. And then the black curly hairs of the master
turned to gray as the dream of his life vanished, and he awoke to the
reality of a heart that can never love another, and to a school with its
A B C and syntax. But somehow the dream comes strangely back in all its
tenderness as he strokes the hair of some fair girl in the class and
looks into her eyes; or it comes darkly back in all its bitterness, and
a fire begins to burn at his heart, which very possibly passes off like
a shock of electricity along his right arm, and down the black tawsc,
finally discharging itself with a flash and a roar into some lazy mass
of agricultural flesh who happens to have a vulgar look like the Laird
of Blackmoss, and an unprepared lesson.
It often happened that
those who were uncommonly bad preachers, were, nevertheless, admirable
teachers, especially if they had found suitable wives, and were softened
by the amenities of domestic life; above all when they had boys of their
own to "drill." The parish school then became one of no mean order. The
glory of the old Scotch teacher of this stamp, was to ground his pupils
thoroughly in "the elements." He hated all shams, and placed little
value on what was acquired without labour. To master details, to stamp
grammar rules and prosody rules, thoroughly understood, upon the minds
of his pupils as with a pen of iron; to move slowly, but accurately
through a classic, this was his delight; not his work only, but his
recreation, the outlet of his tastes and energies. He had no long-spun
theories about education, nor ever tried his hand at adjustina the fine
mechanism of boys' motives. "Do your duty and learn thoroughly, or be
well licked;" "Obedience, work, and no humbug," were the sort of Spartan
axioms which expressed his views. When he found the boys honest at their
work, he rejoiced in his own. But if he found one who seemed bitten with
the love of Virgil or Homer; if he discovered in his voice or look, by
question or answer, that he "promised to be a good classic," the dominie
had a tendency to make that boy a pet. On the annual examination by the
presbytery, with what a pleased smile did he contemplate his favourite
in the hands of some competent and sympathising examiner! And once a
year on such a day the dominic might so far forget his stern and iron
rule as to chuck the boy under the chin, clap him fondly on the back,
and give him sixpence.
I like to call those old
teaching preachers to remembrance. Take them all in all they were a
singular body of men; their humble homes, poor salaries, and hard work,
presenting a remarkable contrast to their manners, abilities, and
literary culture. Scotland owes to them a debt of gratitude that can
never be repaid; and many a successful minister, lawyer, and physician,
is able to recall some one of those old teachers as his earliest and
best friend, who first kindled in him the love of learning, and helped
him in the pursuit of knowledge.
In cities the
schoolmaster may be nobody, lost in the great crowd of professional and
commercial life, unless that august personage the Government Inspector
appears in the school, and links its master and pupil teachers to the
august and mysterious Privy Council located in the official limbo of
Downing Street. But in a country parish, most of all in a Highland
parish, to which we must now return, the schoolmaster or "master"
occupied a most important position.
The schoolmaster of "the
parish " half a century ago was a strong-built man, with such a face,
crowned by such a head, that taking face and head together, one felt
that he was an out-and-out man. A Celt he evidently was, full of
emotion, that could be roused to vehemence, but mild, modest, subdued,
and firm. He had been three years at Glasgow University, attending the
Greek, Latin, and logic classes. How he, the son of a very small farmer,
could support himself is partly explained by the account we have given
of student life at that time in Glasgow college. He had brought, no
doubt, a supply of potatoes, salt herrings, sausages, and dried cod or
ling from Barra, with a mutton ham or two from home. And thus he
managed, with a weekly sum which an unskilled labourer would consider
wretched wages, to educate himself for three years at the University. He
eventually became the schoolmaster, elder, session-clerk, precentor,
post-master, and catechist of "the parish," —offices sufficient perhaps
to stamp him as incompetent by the Privy Council Committee acting under
a "minute," but nevertheless capable of being all duly discharged by
"the master."
The school of course was
his first duty, and there he diligently taught some fifty or sixty
scholars in male and female petticoats for five days in the week,
imparting knowledge of the usual branches," and also instructing two or
three pupils, including his own sons, in Greek, Latin, and mathematics.
I am obliged to confess that neither the teacher nor the children had
the slightest knowledge of physiology, chemistry, or even household
economy. It is difficult to know, in these days of light, how they got
on without it: for the houses were all constructed on principles opposed
in every respect to the laws of health as we at present understand them,
and the cooking was confined chiefly to potatoes and porridge. But
whether it was the Highland air which they breathed, or the rain which
daily washed them, or the absence of doctors, the children who ought to
have died by rule did not, but were singularly robust and remarkably
happy. In spite of bare feet and uncovered heads they seldom had colds,
or, if they had, as Charles Lamb says. "they took them kindly."
His most important work
next to the school was catechising. By this is meant, teaching the
Shorter Catechism" of the Church to the adult parishioners. The custom
was, that at certain seasons of the year, when the people were not busy
at farm-work, they were assembled in different hamlets throughout the
parish: if the weather was wet, in a barn; if fine, on the green
hill-side, and there, by question and answer, with explanatory remarks,
to indoctrinate them into the great truths of religion. Many of the
people in the more distant valleys, where even the small "side schools"
could not penetrate, were unable to read, but they had ears to hear, and
hearts to feel, and through these channels they were instructed. These
meetings were generally on Saturdays when the school was closed. The
sick also had the benefit of the catechist's teaching and prayers.
The schoolmaster, I have
said, was also postmaster. But then the mail was but weekly, and by no
means a heavy one. It contained only a few letters for the sheriff or
the minister, and halfa-dozen to be delivered as opportunity offered to
outlying districts in the parish, and these, with three or four
newspapers a week old, did not occupy much of his time. The post,
moreover, was never in a hurry. "Post haste" was unknown in those parts:
the "poste restante" being much more common. The "runner" was a sedate
walker, and never lost sight of his feelings as a man in his ambition as
a post. Nor was the master's situation as "precentor" a position like
that of organist in Westminster or St Paul's. His music was select, and
confined to three or four tunes. These he modulated to suit his voice
and taste, which were peculiar and difficult to describe. But the people
understood both, and followed him on Sundays as far as their own
peculiar voices and tastes would permit: and thus his musical calling
did not at all interfere with his week-day profession.
It is impossible to
describe the many wants which he supplied and the blessings which he
conferred. There were few marriages of any parochial importance at which
he was not an honoured guest. In times of sickness, sorrow, or death, he
was sure to be present with his subdued manner, tender sympathy, and
Christian counsel. If any one wanted advice on a matter which did not
seem of sufficient gravity to consult about at the manse, "the master"
was called in. If a dying man wanted a trustee, who would deal kindly
and honestly with his widow and children, the master was sure to be
nominated. He knew every one in the parish, and all their belongings, as
minutely as a man on the turf knows the horses and their pedigree.
I need not add that he
was a true friend of the inmates of the manse, and the minister trusted
him as he did no -other man. And so it happened that when the "minister"
was dying the schoolmaster watched him by night, and tended him as an
old disciple would have done one of the prophets, and left him not until
with prayer he closed his eyes.
His emoluments for all
this labour were not extravagant. Let us calculate. He had £15 as
schoolmaster; £5 in school fees; £7 as postmaster; £1 as session clerk;
£1 as leader of church psalmody; £5 as catechist; £34 in all, with house
and garden. He had indeed a bit of ground with two or three cows, a few
sheep, and a few acres for potatoes, and oats or barley, but for all
this he paid rent. So his emoluments were not large. The house was a
thatched cottage with what the Scotch call a "but and ben;" the "but"
being half kitchen, half bedroom, with a peat-fire on the floor, the "ben"
having also a bed, but being dignified by a grate. Between them was a
small bed-closet separated from the passage by a wicker partition. All
the floors were clay. Above was a garret or loft reached by a ladder,
and containing amidst a dim light a series of beds and shakes-down like
a barrack. In this home father, mother, and a family of four sons and
three daughters were accommodated. The girls learned at home,--in
addition to "the three r's" learned at school,—to sew and spin, card
wool, and sing songs; while the boys, after preparing their Virgil or
arithmetic sums for next day, went in the evening to fish, to work in
the garden, or on the farm, to drive the cattle- home, to cut peats for
fuel or stack them, to reap ferns and house them for bedding the cattle
in winter, or make "composts" for the fields, and procure for them moss
and other unmentionable etceteras. When darkness came they gathered
round the fire, while some wove baskets, repaired the horses' harness or
their own shoes, made fishing lines and busked " hooks; others would
discourse sweet music from the trump, and all in their turn tell stories
to pass the time pleasantly. The grinding of meal for porridge or fuarm
was a common occupation. This fiiarag was a mixture made up of meal
freshly ground from corn that had been well toasted and dried before the
fire, and then whipped up with thick cream,—a dainty dish to set before
a king! The difficulty in making it good was the getting of corn freshly
toasted and meal freshly ground. It was prepared by means of a quern,
which at that time was in almost every house. The quern .consisted of
two round flat stones, of about a foot in diameter, and an inch or so
thick, corresponding to the grinding stones in a mill. The lower stone
was fixed, and the upper being fitted into it by a circular groove, was
made to revolve rapidly upon it, while the corn was poured through a
hole in the upper stone to be ground between the two. It was worked
thus. A clean white sheet was spread over the bed in the kitchen. The
mill was placed in the centre. One end of a stick was then inserted into
a hole in the upper stone to turn it round, while the other end of the
stick, to give it a purchase and keep it steady, was fixed in the twist
of a rope, stretched diagonally from one bedpost to another. The miller
sat in, the bed, with a leg on each side of the quern, and seizing the
stick, rapidly turned the stone, while the parched corn was poured in.
When ground it was taken away and cleaned of all husks. The dry new meal
being whipped up with rich cream the fuarag was ready, and then—lucky
the boy who got it! I cannot forget the mill or its product, having had
the privilege of often sharing in the labours of the one, and enjoying
the luxury of the other.
Our schoolmaster could
not indeed give entertainments worthy of a great educational institute,
nor did he live in the indulgence of any delicacies greater than the one
I have dwelt upon, if, indeed, there was any greater then in existence.
There was for breakfast the never-failing porridge and milk—and 3uch
milk !—with oat-cakes and bar-Icy scones for those who preferred them,
or liked them as a top-dressing. On Sundays there were tea and eggs. The
dinner never wanted noble potatoes, with their white powdery waistcoats,
revealing themselves under the brown jackets. At that time they had not
fallen into the "sere and yellow leaf," but retained all their pristine
youth and loveliness as when they rejoiced the heart of some Peruvian
Inca in the land of their nativity. With such dainties, whether served
up "each like a star that dwelt apart," or mashed with milk or a little
fresh butter into a homogeneous mass, what signified the accompaniments?
Who will inquire anxiously about them? There may have been sometimes
salt herring, sometimes other kinds of sea-fish—lythe, rock-cod,
mackerel, or saithe, but oftener the unapproachable milk alone! At times
a fat hen, and bit of pork, or blackfaced mutton, would mar the
simplicity of the dinner. When these came, in Providence, they were
appreciated. But whatever the food, all who partook of it ate it
heartily, digested it with amazing rapidity, and never were the worse,
but always the better for it No one had headaches, or ever heard of
medicine except in sermons; and all this is more than can be said of
most feasts, from those of the excellent Lord Mayor of London downwards,
in all of which the potatoes and milk are shamefully ignored, while salt
herring and potatoes—the most savoury of dishes—and even fuarag, are
utterly forgotten.
Handless people, who buy
everything they require, can, have no idea how the schoolmaster and his
family managed to get clothes; yet they always were clothed, and
comfortably too. There was wool afforded by their own few sheep, or
cheaply obtained from their neighbours, and the mother and daughters
employed themselves during the long winter nights in carding and
spinning it. Then Callum the weaver took in hand to weave it into
tartans, of any known Celtic pattern: and Peter the tailor undertook to
shape it into comely garments for father or son; while the female
tailors at home had no difficulty in arranging suitable garments out of
their own portion of the wool. As for shoes, a hide or two of leather
was purchased, and John the shoemaker, like Peter the tailor, would come
to the house and live there, and tell his stories, and pour out the
country news, and rejoice in the potatoes, and look balmy over the
fuarag. Peter the tailor, when he went, left beautiful suits of clothes
behind him ; John the shoemaker completed the adornment by most
substantial shoes—wanting polish, probably, and graceful shapes, but
nevertheless strong and victorious in every battle with mud and water,
and possessing powerful thongs and shining tackets. And thus the family
were clothed—if we except the kilts of the younger boys, which
necessarily left Nature, with becoming confidence in her powers, to a
large portion of the work about the limbs. The master's suit of black
was also an exception. When that suit was purchased was a point not
easily determined. It was generally understood to have been obtained
when the schoolmaster went on his first and last journey to see George
IV. in Edinburgh. The suit was folded in his large green chest behind
the door, and was only visible once a year at the communion, or when
some great occasion, such as a marriage or a funeral, called it forth
into sunlight. The tartan coat and home-made woollen trousers were at
such times exchanged for black broadcloth, and the black silk neckcloth
for a white cravat; and then the schoolmaster, with his grave
countenance and gray whiskers, and bald head, might pass for a professor
of theology or the bishop of a diocese.
The worthy schoolmaster
is long since dead. He died, as he had lived, in peace with God and man.
The official residence has been changed to another part of the parish ;
and when I last saw the once happy and contented home of the good man,
with whom I had spent many happy days, the garden was obliterated, the
footpaths covered with grass, and the desolation of many years was over
-it. Verily, the place that once knew him knows him no more. |
