Michael Barrett - Up in Ardmuirland

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UP IN ARDMUIRLAND

by

REV. MICHAEL BARRETT, O.S.B.

New York Cincinnati Chicago
Benziger Brothers
Publishers of Benziger's Magazine
1912
Copyright, 1912, by Benziger Brothers

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. PERSONAL
II. MEMORIES
III. ARCHIE
IV. GOLDEN DREAMS
V. "DOMINIE DICK"
VI. BILDY
VII. SMUGGLERS
VIII. PHENOMENA
IX. SPRING'S RETURN
X. A RUSTIC PASTOR
XI. A SPRIG OF SHAMROCK
XII. PENNY

UP IN ARDMUIRLAND

I

PERSONAL

Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean
Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine.
(_Longfellow--"Miles Standish"_)

Val and I, being twins, have always been looked upon as inseparables.
True, we have been often forced apart during life's course; yet,
somehow, we have always managed to drift back again into the old
companionship which Nature seems to have intended in bringing us into
the world together.

Boyhood and youth, as long as school life lasted, slipped by with never
a parting. The crux came when we were old enough to choose our
respective paths in life. It appeared that Val, although he had never
before breathed a word to me--whatever he may have done to Dad--had
thoroughly determined to be a priest if he could. I had never felt the
ghost of a vocation in that direction, so here came the parting of the
ways. Val went to college, and I was left inconsolable.

But I was not allowed to nurse my griefs; plans had been made in my
regard also, it appeared.

"Ted," said Dad quite abruptly one day, "you'll have to go to Bonn.
That'll be the best place for you, since Oxford is out of the question.
You've got to take my place some day, and you mustn't grow up an
absolute dunce. Atfield" (an old school-chum of his) "is well pleased
with the place for his boy, Bill, so you may get ready to travel back
with him next week, when the vacation finishes."

In those days (how long ago I almost blush to record) Catholics were
not allowed access to our own universities as they now are, and we
Flemings were Catholics to the core, and of old staunch Jacobites, as
befitted our Scottish race and name.

So Bill Atfield took me under his wing, and to Bonn I went the very
next week. There I remained until the end of my course, returning home
for vacations, as a rule, but ending up with a week or two, in company
with Dad, in Paris, whither Val had gone for his philosophy. But such
rare meetings became rarer still when Val went off to Rome, and I had
to take up a profession; and our separation was apparently destined to
last indefinitely when Val had been ordained, and I went out to India
after a civil service appointment.

And yet so kindly at times is Fate that, quite beyond my most ardent
hopes, I have been thrown together with Val, in daily companionship, as
long as life permits.

For, as it fell out, I was invalided home at quite an early stage of my
public career, and, contrary to all family traditions, disgraced my kin
by contracting lung disease--at least, so the doctors have declared,
though I have experienced very little inconvenience thereby, except
that of being condemned to act the invalid for the rest of my life.
For years I was forced by arbitrary decrees to winter in clement
climes, as the only means of surviving till the spring; but now that I
am fifty I have emancipated myself from such slavery, and insist on
spending winter as well as summer in "bonnie Scotland." So far I have
found no difference in health and strength. Thus it came about that a
long visit to Val lengthened out indefinitely, and is not likely to
terminate until one or other of us is removed hence.

The _ego_ appears rather prominently in these introductory paragraphs,
it is true, but it was almost unavoidable; for my presence had to be
accounted for in Ardmuirland before I could give reminiscences of this
delightful spot. Now, however, I am free to speak of other folks; and
first of dear old Val.

It was a long and arduous apprenticeship (if it is not irreverent so to
style it) which Val had to pass in order to fit himself for priestly
work; he was curate for I know not how many years in a large and
extremely poor mission in one of our big towns. He worked well and
thoroughly, as any one who knows Val will be ready to affirm; but his
health would not stand the hard work and close confinement of a town,
and he was forced against his will to relinquish his post. His
attraction had always been toward a studious life, so it came about
that he was sent up here, where he has time to study to his heart's
content, since his flock will never be anything but small. Moreover,
his share of poor old Dad's worldly substance enables him to live, for
the emoluments here would scarcely support a canary-bird.

Yet it must not be supposed that Val is rolling in riches. In the
first place, poor Dad had to sell a good deal of property to make good
his losses from unfortunate investments, and he had not overmuch to
leave us. His worldly wisdom, too, taught him to be sparing with Val.

"He would spend his half in a month, Ted," said the old Pater shrewdly,
when he came to settle his worldly affairs. "I shall therefore leave
the bulk of everything to you, and trust to you to provide liberally
for the dear boy."

Dad's remark is the best possible clue to Val's character. Had he
nothing else to give, Val would strip the very coat off his own back,
when it was a question of relieving distress. So it is a part of my
duty to see that he is clothed and fed as he ought to be, and a
difficult job it is at times.

I suppose I ought to give some idea of Val's appearance, if this is to
be a proper literary turn-out. When we both were younger, it was
commonly said by aunts, uncles, and such like, that one was the image
of the other. That would be scarcely a fair description now. I am
thin; Val is inclined to become chubby. I have a beard and he is
necessarily shaven; he needs glasses always, and I only for reading.
With these preliminary observations I may say that Val is about five
feet six in his shoes, of dark complexion, and with hair inclining to
gray. He is quiet in manner, yet withal a charming companion when
called upon to talk. The people worship him; that is the best
testimonial of a country priest, and all that I need say about his
interior man.

If I did not know for certain that Longfellow never set eyes on
Ardmuirland, I should maintain that the lines at the head of this
chapter were meant for a description of it. For "the steel-blue rim of
the ocean" is but three miles distant from this heather-clad,
wind-swept height, which rises some seven hundred feet above it.
Moreover, as one gazes down, the eye meets many a miniature forest of
pine and birch, clothing portions of the lower hills, or nestling in
the crevices of the numerous watercourses which divide them. Strewn
irregularly over the landscape are white-walled, low-roofed farms and
crofters' dwellings--each in the embrace of sheltering barn and byre,
whose roofs of vivid scarlet often shine out in the sun from a setting
of green meadow or garden.

Our own habitation is simple enough, yet amply suffices for our needs.
It is just a stone cottage of two stories, and is connected by a small
cloister-like passage, Gothic in character, with the stone chapel which
is the scene of Val's priestly ministrations. This, too, is modest
enough. The windows are triple lancets, filled with opaque glass, the
altar of stone and marble, but simple in decoration, the tabernacle of
brass, and the eastern window--larger than the others--is embellished
with stained glass. It is in memory of our dear Dad, and besides his
patron, St. Andrew, it has the figures of St. Valentine and St. Edmund
on either side of the Apostle.

Within the house is a dining-room, a better furnished room for the
reception of important visitors, and a small den known as the "priest's
room," in which Val interviews members of his flock. Upstairs are
Val's study and my sitting-room, with our respective bed-chambers and a
spare one for a casual visitor. Kitchen offices and servants' quarters
are in a tiny special block.

Both chapel and house have been built by Val. I can recall his
pleading letters to Dad for help to raise a more worthy temple. The
Pater, with his characteristic caution, made it a condition of his help
that a new house should form part of the plan. If the old chapel was
as unworthy of its purpose as Val's descriptions painted it, the
dwelling must have been indeed poverty-stricken. From what I have
gleaned from the natives, both buildings must have surpassed in
meanness our wildest conceptions of them. But more upon that subject
later.

Any account of the chapel-house at Ardmuirland would be incomplete
without some reference to a personage who holds an important position
in the household, second only to that of the master of the house. This
is Penelope Spence, known to the world outside as "Mistress Spence,"
and to Val and myself as "Penny." She was our nurse long ago, and is
now the ruler of the domestic affairs of the chapel-house. A little,
round, white-haired, rosy-faced dumpling of a woman is Penny; an
Englishwoman, too, from the Midlands, where the letter H is reserved by
many persons of her social standing for the sake of special emphasis
only. I find by calculation that she first saw the light at least
seventy years ago, but she is reticent upon that subject. All the
precise information I have ever extracted from her on the point is that
she is not so young as she once was--which is self-evident! But young
or old, she is brisk and active, both in mind and body, still. Such a
devoted old soul, too! She would go to the stake cheerfully for either
of us, but for Val she entertains an almost superstitious reverence,
which would be amusing were it not touching. When speaking of him to
the natives, she invariably styles him "the Priest." I imagine she
looks for a higher place above, in recognition of her early services to
him.

Penny was already a young married woman when she came into the service
of our family. Her history, as I have learned it from her own lips,
will be worth narrating, if I can find room for it in these pages.

Elsie is Penny's "lady in waiting"; she is too youthful as yet to have
made history. She hails from a neighboring farm, and is a really
satisfactory handmaid--ready, cheerful, and diligent; she entertains a
thoroughly genuine respect for her superior officer, "Mistress Spence,"
in spite of the latter's somewhat severe notions as to the training of
young servants. In appearance Elsie is much like any other Scottish
lassie of her age--not strikingly beautiful, nor yet ugly; just
pleasant to look upon. Her most conspicuous trait is a smile which
appears to be chronic. One cannot help wondering what she looks like
on occasions when a smile is out of place--at her prayers, or at a
funeral, for instance. I am quite prepared to maintain that she does
not lose it during sleep; for though I have noticed it growing deeper
and broader when she has reason to feel more than usual satisfaction
(e.g., when Penny unthinkingly utters a word of praise), it never
entirely disappears during the daytime.

There is another personage who deserves special mention; for not only
is he an important item in our establishment, but a very special crony
of mine. This is Willy Paterson (known locally, by-the-bye, as "the
Priest's Wully"), our gardener, groom, coachman (when required), and
general handy man. Willy is a wiry, wrinkled, white-haired little
man--little now, because stooping a bit under the weight of well-nigh
eighty years--who is greatly respected by his neighbors far and near
because he has "been sooth." For he was long ago in the ranks of the
police of one of our biggest cities, and his former profession, not to
speak of his knowledge of the world gained thereby, entitles him to
esteem. It has raised him to the rank of a species of oracle on any
subject upon which he is pleased to discourse; the result is a not
unpleasing, because altogether unintentional, dogmatism which seasons
Willy's opinions of men and things.

Our garden is the pride of Willy's heart. It begins in front of the
house, where flowers of varied hue succeed one another as season
follows season, and roses--red, white, and yellow--seem almost
perennial, since they bud forth in late May and scarcely disappear till
December. But that is due to our wonderful climate as much as to
Willy's attention. As the garden disappears round the corner of the
house, its nature changes; vegetables in surprising and intricate
variety there flourish chiefly. At the stable-yard it ceases; beyond
that a dense pine wood holds its own to the very top of a hill, which
rises above our domain and protects us from eastern blasts. The wood
is not the least of the attractions which Ardmuirland has for me;
beyond the more prosaic quality of its health-giving power, it
possesses, as every bit of forest land does for those who can read its
message aright, a charm unspeakable.

And now I seem to hear some crusty reader exclaim quite impatiently,
having skimmed through my literary attempt thus far:

"No doubt the fellow thinks all this interesting enough! But why
expect me to wade through pages of twaddle about Scottish peasants and
their doings--for it is evident that is what it will turn out?"

"Read it or not, just as you feel inclined, honored sir," I answer with
all the courtesy I can command. "I respect your opinions, as your
fellow-creature, and have no desire to thrust my wares upon unwilling
hands. But opinions differ, luckily, or this world would be an
undesirable habitation for any one, so there may be some who do not
disdain my humble efforts to entertain--and perhaps even amuse. To
such I dedicate my pages."

Yet, between ourselves (dear, appreciative reader), it is but just that
I should offer some apology for thus rushing into print. I trust to
you to keep the matter a strict secret from my doctor (McKillagen,
M.D., M.R.C.S.), but winter weather at Ardmuirland is not altogether of
a balmy nature. Consequently it is necessary that these precious lungs
of mine should not be exposed too rashly to

"the cauld, cauld blast, on yonder lea."

This leads to much enclosure within doors during a good share of the
worst of our months--say from February to May, off and on; this again
leads to a dearth of interesting occupation.

It is Val who is really to be blamed for this literary attempt. When,
in an unlucky moment, I was one day expatiating on the material
afforded to a book-maker (I do not use the word in a sporting sense, of
course) by the varied characters and histories of our people, and the
more than ordinary interest attaching to some, he beamed at me across
the dinner-table, a twinkle of humor disclosing itself from behind his
glasses, and said:

"Why not write about them yourself, Ted? You complain of having
nothing to do in bad weather."

The idea took root; it was nourished by reflection. Here is the fruit;
pluck it or not, gentle reader, as your inclination bids.

II

MEMORIES

"Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain."
(_Goldsmith--"Deserted Village"_)

I have heard a complaint made of some reverend preachers (untruthfully,
I well believe) that they could never begin a sermon without harking
back to the Creation. Now it is not my intention to travel quite so
far back into the past, but I must confess to a desire to dig somewhat
deeply into the history of Ardmuirland in days gone by before touching
upon more recent happenings. Such a desire led me to investigate the
recollections of some of our "oldest inhabitants."

Willy Paterson, I well knew, was to be trusted for accurate memories of
a certain class of happenings; but for more minute details of events
the feminine mind is the more reliable. So I determined to start with
Willy's wife, Bell. Their dwelling is nearest to ours; it stands,
indeed, but a few yards down the road which leads past our gate. It is
a white-walled, thatched house of one story only--like most of the
habitations in Ardmuirland; it stands in a little garden whose neatness
and the prolific nature of its soil are standing proofs of Willy's
industry in hours of leisure.

Owing to the prevalence in our neighborhood of some particular
patronymics--Macdonald, Mackintosh, Mackenzie, and the rest--many
individuals are distinguished by what is called in Ardmuirland a
"by-name." Some of these are furnished by the title of the residence
of the family in question, others by the calling or trade of father,
mother, or other relative; thus we have "Margot of the Mill," "Sandy
Craigdhu," as examples of the former, and "Nell Tailor," "Duncan the
Post," of the latter. Still more variety is obtained by the mention of
some personal trait of the individual, such as "Fair Archie," "Black
Janet," and the like. Willy Paterson's wife was commonly known by such
a by-name; every one spoke of her as "Bell o' the Burn," from the name
of her childhood's home.

Bell is a spare, hard-featured body--not attractive at first sight,
though when one comes to know her, and the somewhat stern expression
relaxes, as the lines about the mouth soften, and the brown eyes grow
kindly, one begins to think that Bell must have been once quite
handsome. She is always scrupulously clean whenever I chance to visit
her, and is usually arrayed in a white "mutch" cap, spotless apron, and
small tartan shawl over her shoulders. Willy and she have reared up a
large family, all of them now settled in the world and most of them
married. They are most proud of their youngest, Margaret, who is a lay
sister in a town convent. Though her husband is reckoned a traveler,
Bell can lay no claim to the title; she probably never moved farther
than ten miles away from the family hearthstone until the day she left
her father's house by the Burn of Breakachy to marry Willy Paterson,
and certainly has never traveled much since that time.

Most of the houses of Ardmuirland are constructed on exactly the same
plan. There are two principal rooms--"but" and "ben," as they are
commonly designated. (It is unnecessary here to dive into etymology;
but it may be noticed in passing that _but_ signifies "without" and
_ben_ "within.") To "gae ben" is to pass into the inner room, which at
one time opened out of the ordinary living apartment or kitchen, but is
now usually separated from it by a little entrance lobby. Besides
these two chief rooms, the initiated will be able to point out sundry
little hidden closets and cupboards, fitted up as sleeping apartments,
and reminding one of the contrivances on board ship. The two rooms
each contain a more demonstrative bed, as a rule: but in some cases the
bed is shut up with panelled doors like a cupboard.

All that I learned from Bell about the Ardmuirland of bygone days was
gathered from her lips at intervals, and in the course of many repeated
visits; for it would have been fatal to my purpose had I allowed her to
imagine that I intended to make public use of her communications.
Though I have retained the substance, I have often altered the form;
for it would be useless to expect the reader to translate (if it were
even possible to do so without the help of a glossary) Bell's broad
Scots dialect. Yet the temptation has been too great to be resisted
from time to time to quote her exact words--so quaint her diction and,
to me at least, so attractive withal.

A description of the original chapel of the district will serve as a
fitting introduction to these memoirs. According to Bell, it must have
been simple even to destitution. No smoothly hewn stones, no carved
windows, no decoration of any kind distinguished it from the houses of
the people. It was a small, low building of rough stone, unplastered,
even inside, and roofed by a heather thatch. There was a single door
in the side wall. The roof within was open to the rude, unvarnished
beams which upheld the thatch. The floor was of beaten clay, and there
were rough benches for the people to sit upon during the sermon, but no
contrivance for kneeling upon.

"Some o' the fowk had boards to kneel on, ye ken," Bell explained, "but
the maist o' them prayed kneelin' on the flure."

The altar was a plain, deal kitchen table, devoid of all ornament in
the shape of draperies except the necessary linen coverings.
Underneath it was a box, within which the vestments were stowed away;
for there was no semblance of sacristy, and the priest's house was some
yards distant. At the opposite end from the altar was a raised dais
for the accommodation of the singers, of whom Bell herself was one.
She could not recall what they were accustomed to sing as a rule.

"I mind we wad sing the _Dies Irae_, whiles," was all the information
she could give on that point. One would think it scarcely possible
that so penitential a chant could form the usual musical accompaniment
to Sunday Mass! A teacher of music from a neighboring glen used to
come over from time to time to practise the singers.

"I mind weel," said Bell, "he had a wand and a tunin' fork." Are these
not the recognized signs of ability, all the world over, to conduct a
band of singers? The practices were held in the priest's house;
sometimes the pastor would join in the singing, although Bell naively
remarked on that point:

"He hadna much ear for music, ye ken."

Of the priest of that day, "Mr." McGillivray, as the old style of
address ran, more will be said later. The figure next in prominence to
him in Bell's recollections was the old sacristan, Robbie Benzie. For
many years he acted as "clerk" at the altar, continuing to carry out
his duties when well advanced in years. During the week he carried on
his trade of weaver; on Sundays he was at his post betimes, carrying a
lantern with him, from which he took the light for the altar candles.
Bell describes him as a stalwart man with fine features and dark eyes.
Clad in his green tartan plaid, he always accompanied the priest round
the little chapel with the holy water for the Asperges, and with his
"lint-white locks" flowing onto his neck, he used to appear in Bell's
eyes "a deal mair imposin' lookin' ner the priest himsel'." His modest
and respectful bearing gained him the esteem of all. "I always think
of him," said Bell, "as one o' the saints of th' olden times, ye ken.
He was the model of a guid Catholic--pious, hard-workin', and aye happy
and contented."

In those far-off days Ardmuirland was entirely Catholic. The Faith, in
consequence, was an integral part of the life of the district, and the
priest the recognized potentate, whom every one was at all times ready
to serve--working on his croft, plowing, harvesting, and such
like--with cheerful promptitude. Any such labor, when required, was
requested by the priest from the altar on Sunday.

"I shall be glad to receive help this week on the glebe-land," he would
announce. "You will kindly arrange the division of labor among
yourselves."

The same would happen when the time came for cutting and storing up
peats for the winter fuel. The day and hour would be named, and all
who could possibly help would be at the hill punctually to take their
respective shares in the labor.

It was on one such occasion that the incident occurred which struck me
as the culminating point of Bell's recollections. I cannot give it as
dramatically as she did, and if I attempted to do so the pathos would
be marred by the broad Doric--unintelligible to southrons--in which her
narrative was told; but I will reproduce it as faithfully as possible
in my own words.

It was the "peat-casting" for the priest; every one had worked with a
will--young and old. Dinner had been sent up to the moss at noon by
the various housewives of the district. It was a sumptuous repast, as
usual on so great an occasion; chickens, oatcake, scones, cheese, and
abundance of milk had been thoroughly enjoyed by the workers. The
children--bearers of the dainties from their respective mothers--though
bashful in responding to the fatherly greetings of the old priest, were
yet secretly proud of the honor of his special notice. Shyly they
stood about in groups, watching for a time the resumed labors of
fathers and brothers, until afternoon was wearing away, and it was time
to betake themselves home to make ready for the still more important
event of the day. Gaily they rushed down the hill, their joyous
laughter and merry shouts--relieved as they were from the restraint
which good manners had imposed in the priest's presence--awaking the
echoes of the glen. For many of them would be allowed to take part in
the evening's festivity, and all might share in the preparations for
it. This event was the public supper in the priest's barn, when women
were welcomed with their husbands and brothers, and even the bigger
children were admitted. For the evening repast, as for that of
noonday, each family contributed its share of provisions, which were
always ample in quantity as well as excellent in quality.

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