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THE manse girls were
many. They formed a large family, a numerous flock, a considerable
congregation; or, as the minister expressed it in less exaggerated
terms, "a heavy handful." One part of their education, as I have already
noticed, was conducted by a governess. The said governess was the
daughter of a "governor," or commandant of one of the Highland
forts—whether Fort-Augustus or Fort-William, I remember not--- where he
had for years reigned over a dozen rusty guns, and twice as many
soldiers, with all the dignity of a man who was supposed to guard the
great Southern land against the outbreaks and incursions of the wild
Highland clans, although, in truth, the said Highland clans had been
long asleep in the old churchyard "amang the heather," for, as the song
hath it,
"No more we'll see such
deeds again;
Deserted is the Highland glen,
And mossy cairns are o'er the men
Who fought and died for Charlie."
The "major"—for the
commandant had attained that rank in the first American war—left an only
daughter who was small and dumpy in stature, had no money, and but one
leg. Yet was she most richly provided for otherwise, with every womanly
quality, and the power of training girls in "all the branches" then
considered most useful for sensible well-to-do women and wives. She was
not an outsider in the family, or a mere teaching machine, used and
valued like a mill or plough for the work done, but a member of the
household, loved and respected for her own sake. She was so dutiful and
kind, that the beat of her wooden leg on the wooden stair became
musical—a very beating of time with all that was best and happiest in
her pupils' hearts. She remained for some years educating the younger
girls, until a batch of boys broke the line of feminine succession, and
then she retired for a time to teach one or more families in the
neighbourhood. But no sooner was the equilibrium of the manse restored
by another set of girls, than the little governess returned to her old
quarters, and once more stumped through the schoolroom, with her happy
face, wise tongue, and cunning hand.
The education of the
manse girls was neither learned nor fashionable. They were taught
neither French nor German, music nor drawing, while dancing as an art
was out of the question, with the wooden leg as the only artist to teach
it. The girls, however, were excellent readers, writers, and
arithmeticians; they could sew, knit, shape clothes, and patch to
perfection, and give all needful directions for the kitchen, the dairy,
the garden, or the poultry-yard. I need hardly say that they were their
own and their mother's only dressmakers, manifesting wonderful skill and
taste in making old things look new, and in so changing the cut and
fashion of the purchases made long ago from the packman, that Mary's
"everlasting silk," or Jane's merino, seemed capable of endless
transformations ; while their bonnets, by judicious turning, trimming,
and tasteful use of a little bit of ribbon, looked always fresh and new.
Contrasted with an
expensive and fashionable education, theirs will appear to have been
poor and vulgar. Yet in the long course of years, I am not sure that the
manse girls had not the best of it. For one often wonders what becomes
of all this fashionable education in the future life of the young lady.
What French or German books does she read as a maid or matron? With whom
does she, or can she, converse in these languages? Where is her drawing,
beyond the Madonna'r heads and the Swiss landscape which she brought
from school, touched up by the master? What music does she love and
practise for the sake of its own beauty, and not for the sake of adding
to the hum of the drawing-room after dinner? The manse girls could read
and speak two languages, at least—Gaelic and English. They could sing,
too, their own Highland ditties: wild, but yet as musical as mountain
streams and summer winds; sweet and melodious as song of thrush or
blackbird in spring, going right to the heart of the listener, and from
his heart to his brimming eyes. And so I am ready to back the education
of the poor manse against that of many a rich and fashionable mansion,
not only as regards the ordinary "branches," but much more as developing
the mental powers of the girls. At all events they acquired habits of
reflective observation, with a capacity of thoroughly relishing books,
enjoying Nature in all her varying scenes and moods, and of expressing
their own thoughts and sentiments with such a freshness and force as
made them most delightful members of society. A fashionable education,
on the other hand, is often a mere tying on to a tree of a number of
"branches" without life, instead of being a developing of the tree
itself, so that it shall bear its own branches loaded with beautiful
flowers and clustering fruit.
But the manse school
included more rooms than the little attic where the girls met around
that familiar knob of wood which projected from beneath the neat calico
of the major's daughter. The cheerful society of the house; the love of
kindred,—each heart being as a clear spring that sent forth its stream
of affection with equable flow to refresh others; the innumerable
requirements of the glebe and farm; the spinning and knitting; the work
in the laundry, the kitchen, and the dairy; the glorious out-door
exercise over field and moor, in the glens or by the shore; the
ministrations of charity, not with its doled-out alms to beggars only,
but with its "kind words and looks and tender greetings" to the many
cottagers around, — these all were teachers in the Home School. And
thus, partly from circumstances, partly, it must be acknowledged, from
rare gifts bestowed upon them by God, they all grew up with a purity, a
truthfulness, a love and gladness, which made the atmosphere of the
manse one of constant sunshine. Each had her own strong individual
character, like trees which grow free on the mountain side. They
delighted in books, and read them with head and heart, undisturbed by
the slang and one-sided judgments of hack critics. And it occasionally
happened that some Southern friend, who in his wanderings through the
Highlands enjoyed the hospitality of the manse, sent the girls a new
volume of pleasant literature as a remembrance of his visit. These gifts
were much valued, and read as volumes are seldom read nowadays. Books of
good poetry especially were so often conned by them that they became as
portions of their own thoughts.
The manse girls did not
look upon life as a vain show, aimless and purposeless; upon everything
and every person as "a bore;" or upon themselves as an insupportable
burden to parents and to brothers,—unless they got husbands! Choice
wives they would have made, for both their minds and persons had
attractions not a few; and "good offers," as they were called, came to
them as to others. Young men had been "daft" about them, and they were
too sensible and womanly not to wish for a home they could call their
own; yet it never crossed their thoughts that they must marry, just as
one must get a pair of shoes. They never imagined that it was possible
for any girl of principle and feeling to marry a man whom she did not
love, merely because he had a number of sheep and cattle on a Highland
farm; or had good prospects as a shopkeeper in Glasgow; or had a parish
as a minister, or a property as a "laird." Poor foolish creatures were
they not to think so? without one farthing they could call their own;
with no prospects from their father, the minister; with no possessions
save what he had last purchased for them from the pack-man! What on
earth would come of them, or of their mother, if the parson were drowned
some stormy night with Rory and the "Roe?" Were they to be cast on the
tender mercies of this or that brother who had a home of his own? What?
a brother to afford shelter to a sister! Or could they seriously intend
to trust God's Providence for the future, if they only did His will for
the present? Better far, surely, to accept the first good offer; snatch
at the hand of the large sheep-farmer, or that of the rich grocer, or
that of the popular preacher; nay, let them take their chance even with
James, the tutor, who has been sighing over each of them in turn! But,
no; like "fools," they took for granted that it never could come wrong
in the end to do what was right and proper at the time, and so they
never thought it to be absolutely incumbent on them to "marry for
marrying's sake." Neither father nor mother questioned the propriety of
their conduct. And thus it came to pass that none of them, save one, who
loved most heroically and most truly unto death, ever married. The
others became what married ladies and young expectants of that
life-climax call—Old Maids. But many a fireside, and many a nephew and
niece, with the children of a second generation, blessed God for them as
precious gifts.
I feel that no apology is
required for quoting the following extract from a letter written by the
pastor, more than sixty years ago, when some of the eldest of the manse
girls left home for the first time. It will find, I doubt not, a
response in the heart of many a pastor in similar circumstances:-
"It was, my dear, my very
dear girls, at seven in the morning of Thursday, the 31st August, you
took your departure from the old quay—that quay where often I landed in
foul and fair weather, at night and by day; my heart always jumping
before me, anticipating the happiness of joining the delightful group
that formed my fireside,—a group I may never see collected again. How
happy the parents, the fewest in number, who can have their families
within their reach ! happier still, when, like you, their families are
to them a delight and comfort! You left the well-known shores of and
your parents returned with heavy steps, the weight of their thoughts
making their ascent to the manse much slower and harder to accomplish
than ever they found it before. We sat on the hill-side bathed in tears,
giving many a kind and longing look to the wherry, which always went
further from us, till our dim eyes, wearied of their exertions, could
see nothing in its true state; when, behold, cruel Castle Duart
interrupted our view, and took out of our sight the boat that carried
from us so much of our worldly treasure. Our thousand blessings be with
our dear ones, we cried, and returned to the house,—to the manse of —; a
house where much comfort and happiness were always to be found; where
the friend was friendly treated, and where the stranger found himself at
home; where the distressed and the needy met with pity and kindness, and
the beggar never went off without being supplied; where the story and
the joke often cheered the well-pleased guests, and were often
accompanied with the dance and the song, and all with an uncommon degree
of elegance, cheerfulness, and good humour. But with me these wonted
scenes of merriment are now over. The violin and the song have no charms
for me; the dance and the cheerful tale delight no more. But hold,
minister! what mean you by these gloomy thoughts? Why disturb for a
moment the happiness of the dear things you write to, and for whose
happiness you so earnestly pray, by casting a damp upon their gay and
merry hours? Cease, foolish, and tempt not Providence to afflict you!
What! have you not many comforts to make you happy? Is not the friend of
your bosom, the loving dutiful wife, and the loving dutiful mother,
alive to bless and to comfort you? Is not your family, though somewhat
scattered, all alive? Are they not all good and promising? None of them
ever yet caused you to blush; and are not these great blessings? and are
they not worthy of your most cheerful and grateful acknowledgments? They
are, they are, and I bless God for His goodness. But the thought—I
cannot provide for these! Take care, minister, that the anxiety of your
affection does not unhinge that confidence with which the Christian
ought to repose upon the wise and good providence of God! What though
you are to leave your children poor and friendless? Is the arm of the
Lord shortened that He cannot help? is His ear heavy that He cannot
hear? You yourself have been no more than an instrument in the hand of
His goodness ; and is His goodness, pray, bound up in your feeble arm?
Do you what you can; leave the rest to God. Let them be good, and fear
the Lord, and keep His commandments, and He will provide for them in His
own way and in His own time. Why, then, wilt thou be cast down, 0 my
soul ; why disquieted within me? Trust thou in the Lord! Under all the
changes and the cares and the troubles of this life, may the
consolations of religion support our spirits. In the multitude of the
thoughts within me, thy comforts, O my God, delight my soul! But no more
of this preaching-like harangue, of which, I doubt not, you wish to be
relieved. Let me rather reply to your letter, and tell you my news."
It was after this period
that he had to mourn the loss of many of his family. And then began for
the manse girls the education within the school of sickness and death,
whose door is shut against the intrusion of the noisy world, and into
which no one can enter, except the Father of all, and "the Friend who
sticketh closer than a brother."
The first break in a
family is a solemn and affecting era in its history; most of all when
that family is "all the world" to its own members. The very thought—so
natural to others who have suffered—that this one who has been visited
by disease can ever become dangerously ill—can ever die, is by them
dismissed as a dreadful night-mare. Then follow "the hopes and fears
that kindle hope, an undistinguishable throng;" the watchings which turn
night into day, and day into night; the sympathy of sorrow which makes
each mourner hide from others the grief that in secret is breaking the
heart; the intense realisation, at last, of all that may be—ay, that
must be—until the last hours come, and what these are they alone know
who have loved and lost. What a mighty change does this first death make
in a family, when it is so united, that if one member suffers all
suffer! It changes everything. The old haunts by rock or stream can
never be as they were; old songs are hushed for years, and, if ever sung
again, they are like wails for the dead; every room in the house seems,
for a time, tenanted more by the dead than by the living; the books
belong to the dead; the seat in church is not empty, but occupied by the
dead; plans and purposes, family arrangements and prospects, all seem
for a time so purposeless and useless. No one ever calculated on this
possibility! The trial which has come verily seems "strange." Yet this
is, under God, a holy and blessed education. Lessons are then taught,
"though as by fire," which train all the scholars for a higher school.
And if that old joyousness and hilarity pass away which belong to a
world that seemed as if it could not change—like a very Eden before the
fall—it is succeeded by a deeper life; a life of faith and hope which
find rest in the unchanging rather than the changing present.
Such was a portion of the
education which the pastor and his family received for many succeeding
years in the old manse; but its memory was ever accompanied by
thanksgiving for the true, genuine Christian life and death of those who
had died. I need hardly say that the girls, more than the other members
of the family, shared these sorrows and this discipline; for whatever
men can do in the storm of ocean or of battle, women are the ministering
angels in the room of sickness and of suffering.
Before I turn away from
the manse girls, I must say something more of their little governess.
She lingered long about the manse, as a valued friend, when her services
were no longer needed. But she resolved at last to attempt a school in
the low country, and to stamp some uneducated spot with the impress of
the wooden knob. Ere doing so, she confided to the minister a story told
her by her father, the fort-commandant, about some link or other which
bound him to the Argyle family. What that link precisely was, no history
records. It may have been that her mother was a Campbell, or that the
major had served in a regiment commanded by some member of that noble
house, or had picked an Argyle out of the trenches of Ticonderoga.
Anyhow, the commandant fancied that his only daughter would find a
crutch of support, like many others, in "the Duke," if he only knew the
story. Never up to this time was the crutch needed; but needed it was
now if shp was to pursue her life-journey in peace. Why not tell the
story then to the Duke ? quoth the minister. 'Why not ? thoughtfully
ruminated the little governess. And so they both entered the manse
study—a wonderful little sanctum of books and MSS., with a stuffed otter
and wild-cat, a gun, compass, coil of new rope, the flag of the "Roe," a
print of the Duke of Argyle, and of several old divines and reformers,
in wigs and ruffs. There the minister wrote out, with great care, a
petition to the Duke for one of the very many kind charities, in the
form of small annuities, which were dispensed by his Grace. The
governess determined to present it in person at Inveraray. But the
journey thither was then a very serious matter. To travel nowadays from
London to any capital on the Continent is nothing to what that journey
was. For it could only be done on horseback, and by crossing stormy
ferries, as wide as the Straits of Dover. The journey was at last,
however, arranged in this way. There lived in one of the many cottages
on the glebe, a man called "old Archy," who had been a servant in the
family of the pastor's father-in-law. Archy had long ago accompanied, as
guide and servant, the minister's wife, when she had gone to Edinburgh
for her education. Having been thus trained to foreign travel, and his
fame established as a thoroughly qualified courier, he was at once
selected to accompany the governess to Inveraray on horseback. That
excellent woman from nervous anxiety, did not go to bed the night
previous to her departure; and she had worked for a fortnight to produce
a new dress in which to appear worthily before the Duke. She had daily
practised, moreover, the proper mode of address, and was miserable from
the conviction that all would be ruined by her saying "Sir," instead of
"your Grace." The minister tried to laugh her out of her fears, and to
cheer her by the assurance that a better-hearted gentleman lived not
than the good Duke of Argyle; and that she must just speak to him as she
felt. She departed with her black trunk slung behind Archy; and also
with extraordinary supplies of cold fowls, mutton, ham, and cheese—not
to speak of letters commendatory to every manse on the road. What
farewells, and kissings, and waving of handkerchiefs, and drying of
eyes, and gathering of servants and of dogs at the manse door as the
governess rode off on the white horse, Archy following on the brown! The
proper arrangement of the wooden leg had been a great mechanical and
aesthetic difficulty, but somehow the girls, with a proper disposal of
drapery, had made the whole thing quite comme it faut. Archy too
had patched up a saddle of wonderful structure for the occasion.
Time passed, and in a
fortnight, to the joy of the household, the white mare was seen coming
over the hill, with the brown following; and soon the governess was once
more in the arms of her friends, and the trunk in those of Archy. Amidst
a buzz of questions, the story was soon told with much flutter and some
weeping—how she had met the Duke near the castle; how she had presented
her petition, while she could not speak; how his Grace had expressed his
great regard for "his minister;" and how next day, when she called by
appointment, he had signified his intention of granting the annuity. "It
is like himself," was the minister's only remark, while his eyes seemed
fuller than usual as he congratulated the little governess on her
success; and gave an extra bumper, with many a compliment, to old Archy
for the manner in which he had guided the horses and their riders. The
little governess taught a school for many years, and enjoyed her annuity
till she was near ninety. During her last days, she experienced the
personal kindness and tender goodness of the present "Argyle," as she
had long before done, of the former "Argyles." |
