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1866.

David Elginbrod.

18

"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.

out exhortations, without any apparent terror | dawtie; keep your mind easy about that." There is a We have already given one of his dicta, and concerning the state of souls." quite unanswerable sneer in the last sentence, he says many things as wise and beautiful. but it seems to us that it was not the absence Here is a characteristic conversation. Hugh from Miss Edgeworth's novels of terrors, Sutherland is at the time tutor in the family exhortations, and warnings, but of all those of a Scotch laird, and "the leddy" has anhigher aspirations and deeper feelings which noyed him by some petty persecution :"By and by David came in. lay at the base of his own character, that pained Robert Hall. It disturbed him that these things should be excluded from the conception of men and women, which a thoughtful and very sensible woman had formed. His complaint, as Mr. Lewes reports it, is a perfectly well-founded criticism of the dryness, narrowness, and essential poverty of the moral and spiritual life which Miss Edgeworth delineates. A running commentary of praise and blame is by no means desirable in a novel. But it is not one of Miss Edgeworth's merits, that she accompaniher readers that didactic spares ment. If ever there was a novelist who wrote to teach, Miss Edgeworth is one; and a very sensible and virtuous teacher she is. But there is a whole world of emotions which she seems to want the sense for perceiving, and therefore she takes no note of relations which seemed to Robert Hall to be necessarily involved in the circumstances of her story, and to be in themselves much more important than those which she saw more clearly.

We, at least, shall never reproach our author, either for his strong religious feelings or for his profound conceptions of the laws of man's moral and spiritual nature, so long as these feelings and conceptions result in characters like David Elginbrod. David's theology is not the common theology, either of Scotch peasants or of Scotch divines; but it is a very noble and deep theology notwithstanding, and it is certainly the pervading spirit of a very noble character. This is not the place to explain its doctrines, or discuss their soundness; but if any of our readers be at all suspicious of heresy, we venture to console him by the answer with which David replies to a similar suspicion on the part of his excellent wife. He had asked Janet if she believed that ever a serpent spoke. "the deil was in "Hoot, Dawvid," she says, "The deil a word o' that's him, ye ken." in the word itsel' though," rejoined David, with a smile. "Dawvid," said Janet solemnly, and with some consternation, "ye're no gaein to tell me, sittin' there, 'at ye dinna believe ilka word 'at's prented 'atween the twa brods o' the Bible? What will Maister Janet, my Sutherlan' think o' ye?" beamed bonny lass," and here David's eye upon his wife, "I believe as mony o' them as ye do, and may be a wheen mair, my

"Weel, but ye see,' said he, folding his "she hasna' jist had a'thegither palms together, 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 David. property,' said Hugh, not quite understanding

"Ow ay, she brocht him gowpenfu's o' no riches 'at i'll mak' a guid breed-'cep' it be siller; but hoo was't gotten? An' ye ken it's 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 twa upo' ilka yard he sauld. Sae he took frae peint o' the ellwan', sae 'at he made an inch or his soul, and pat intill his sillerbag, 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 come o' a guid breed for the bodily part o' ye. aboot yer family; but ye seem at eesicht to seen-an' I trust in God I'm no' mista'en-ye That's a sma' matter; but frae what I ha'e 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 creatures, for they canna help it sae weel as the never to be hard upo' them 'at's sma' creepin' and me can." like o' you

"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 breed in Hugh's exterior, certainly applied to others. What he had said about the signs of himself as well. His carriage was full of a certain rustic refinement; his dignity, and 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 stern-
ness, 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 just 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' scunner at them, honest woman, wi' garren' 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."

cam' noo an' than frae a low i' the fire. The snaw was driftin' a wee aboot the bit winnock, an' his auld een was fixed upo't; an' a' 'at he said, takin' no notice o' me, was jist, 'The birdies is flutterin'; the birdies is flutterin'.' I spak' till him, an' tried to roose him, wi' ae thing after anither, bit I micht as well hae spoken to the door-cheek, for a' the notice that he took. Never a word he spak', but aye, 'The birdies is flutterin'. At last, it cam to my min' 'at the body was aye fu' o' ane o' the psalms in particler; an' sae I jist said till him at last: John hae ye forgotten the twentythird psalm? Forgotten the twenty-third psalm!' quo' he; an' his face lighted up in a moment frae the inside; The Lord's my shepherd,'-an' I hae followed Him through a' the smorin' drift o' the warl', an' he'll bring me to the green pastures an' the still waters o' His summer-kingdom at the lang last. I shall not want. An' I hae wanted for naething, naething.' He had been a shepherd himsel in's young days. An soon he gaed, wi' a kin' o' a personal commentary on the haill psalm frae beginnin' to en', and syne he jist fell back into the auld croonin' sang, 'The birdies is flutterin'; the birdies is flutterin'.' The lict dee'd oot o' his face, an' a' that I could say couldna' bring back the licht to his face, nor the sense to his tongue. He'll sune be in a better warl'. Sae I was jist forced to leave him. But I promised his dochter, puir body, that I would ea' again an' see him the morn's afternoon. It's unco dowie wark for her; for they hae scarce a nee

This is what David had told Hugh of his bor within reach o' them, in case o' a change: father:

:

an' there had hardly been a creatur' inside o' their door for a week.""

"It's a sair stroke to bide,' said David; 'but it's a gran' thing whan a man's won Alec Forbes of Howglen is by far the weel throw't. When my father deit, I min' weel, I was sae prood to see him lyin' there, in best of Mr. Mac Donald's novels. It has the cauld grandeur o' deith, an' no man at no character so entirely noble as David Eldaured say he ever did or spak the thing 'at ginbrod; but there is at least one as impresdidna become him, 'at I jist gloried i' the mids sive and almost as grand; and Thomas o' my greetin'. He was but a puir auld shep- Crann does not stand, like David, alone in herd, Mr. Sutherlan', wi' hair as white as the his greatness. There are several others sheep 'at followed him; an' I wat as they fol-worthy of his companionship, especially lowed him, he followed the great Shepherd; an' followed an' followed, till he jist fol. lowed Him hame, whaur we're a' boun', an' some o' us far on the road, thanks to Him!'"

Our extracts from David Elginbrod are sufficiently long already; but we must find room for the following:

"I hae seen a wonnerfu' sicht sin' I saw you, Mr. Sutherlan'. I gaed to see an auld Christian, whase body an' brain are nigh worn oot. He was never onything remarkable for intellec, and jist took what the minister tellt him for true, an' keepit the guid o't; for his hert was aye richt, an' his faith a hantle stronger than maybe it had ony richt to be, accordin' to his ain opingans; but, hech! there's something far better nor his opingans i' the hert o' ilka God-fearin' body. Whan I gaed butt the hoose, he was sittin' in's auld armchair by the side o' the fire, an' his face lukit dazed like. There was no licht in't but what

Annie Anderson, the heroine, and the blind old woman, Tibbie Dyster. As a story, the book is more coherent than its predecessor, and abundantly proves, what even David Elginbrod left rather doubtful, that Mr. Mac Donald, when he chooses, can see men and women of flesh and blood, with just as clear a vision, and describe them as truly and forcibly as the more ethereal creatures of his own imagination. For there is nothing here that is the least fantastic. Excepting one little piece of melodrama, which is painful without being impressive, there is nothing to disturb the simple and truthful tone which characterizes the book.

The story of Annie Anderson's childhood is, to our mind, the sweetest and most touching that has been told for many a day. She is the daughter of a small Scotch farmer, and at a very early age is left an

orphan, and is sent to live with a distant cousin,--a hard, mean, greedy, theological small shopkeeper in a small country town in the North. Her first experience of her new home is characteristic. She is sent to bed in. a garret, and without a candle, and has scarcely buried her head under the clothes, when her prayers are interrupted by a terrible noise of scratching and scampering in the room beside her.

"I tried to cry oot,' she said afterwards, for I kent 'at it was rottans; but my tongue booed i' my mou' for fear, and I cudna speak ae word.' The child's fear of rats amounted to a frenzied horror. She did not move a finger. To get out of bed with those creatures running about the room was as impossible as it was to cry out. But her heart did what her tongue could not do-cried out with a great and bitter cry to one who was more ready to hear than Robert and Nancy Bruce. And what her heart cried was this: "O God, tak care o' me frae the rottans." There was no need to send an angel from heaven in answer to this little one's prayer. The cat would do. Annie heard a scratch and a mew at the door. The rats made one frantic scramble and were still.... A few moments and she was fast asleep, guarded by God's angel, the cat, for whose entrance she took good care ever after to leave the door ajar."

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Next day she goes to the parish school, where boys and girls are taught, and maltreated, by the same savage schoolmaster. There she meets the hero, a manly, generous, good-hearted boy, and the least interesting character in the book; but he is less uninteresting at school than in later life, and he serves the good purpose of illustrating the simple confidence of Annie's character, very much in the same manner as the cat does. He protects her, not certainly from all the miseries of school, but from as many as he can, and becomes in her eyes the best and greatest of heroes. This picture of the parish school, with all its wretchedness, is perhaps the most delightful part of the book. Even in Murdoch Malison, the savage master, whom at first we are naturally disposed to detest, we are taught to find much that is interesting, and something that is pathetic, before we part from him. Glamerton parish school might seem to the hasty reader almost as hateful as Dotheboy's Hall; but Malison in reality, besides being serious, not grotesque, is in other things also, as far as possible from resembling Mr. Squeers. He is a conscientious despot, not a wanton tormentor. His cruelty is partly a savage sense of duty, and partly the consequence of his having nothing of the childlike in himself, so that "he never saw the mind

of the child whose person he was assailing with excruciating blows." But when he suffers punishment himself, he is the better for it; and we know nothing finer in its way than the really tragical history of one great disaster which befalls him. But we have no room to extract the story, and we must not spoil by compressing it. How Malison, in his fury, lames little Truffy, how he fails ignominiously in the pulpit, and becomes "a sticket minister," the tender affection which grows up between pupil and master after this double calamity, and their tragic and beautiful end, our readers will learn for themselves if our word has any weight with them. But, after all, it is Annie herself who gives the great charm. Her naïveté, her theological perplexities, and her perfect trustfulness and homely, confiding simplicity, are exceedingly touching; and all the more so for the charming background of natural, healthy child's-play by which she is surrounded, without forming part of it. How Alec and Curly build a boat, while Annie sings to them, is a tale that will charm all boys and girls, and all older people also, who have any relish for simple enjoyment. Notwithstanding all this, there is undoubtedly a certain harshness and sterility in the first aspect of life at Glamerton, a bleakness of atmosphere and meanness of external circumstance that is almost depressing to the reader who comes to it fresh from the magic beauties of Phantastes; but it is impossible to go very far without perceiving that, after all, there is a greater wealth and fulness of life in this real world, than there was in the imaginary. The cold grey atmosphere takes warmth and colour, the nar row interests grow larger and wider, and we are forced to admit that external limitations may have very little power of circumscribing the beauty and power of human life. And this effect is not produced by the slightest departure from the homely simplicity, or perfect truth, of the picture. Masons, carpenters, and farm-servants are the principal characters, and Mr. Mac Donald does not attribute to them a wider experience or greater knowledge than they are likely to have attained. But he does not hesitate to ascribe to them strong natures and fine thoughts. There is a depth and solemnity, as we have said, in the character of Thomas Crann, worthy of the author of David Elginbrod. He has a great deal of sagacity, and wisdom, although of a lower order than the wisdom of David. His theology is much narrower than that of David. He is a member of the "Missionar Kirk," and a rigid Calvinist; but his gloomy opin ions and severe judgment, both of himself

Mr. Mac Donald has not shrunk in delineating the religious life of his charac ters, from doing so in the only way in which it was possible, and showing us the attitude of their souls towards God, as well as towards their fellow-men. He has not hesitated to tell us how his people pray; and with what perfect reverence, as well as spiritual truth, he has represented their devotion, our readers may understand from this picture of Thomas Crann. We must premise that he is just recovering from a broken leg :

"A deacon of the church, a worthy little visit Thomas, and find out, which was not an weaver, had been half-officially appointed to easy task, if he was in want of anything. When he arrived Jean was out. He lifted the latch, entered, and tapped gently at Thomas's door-too gently, for he received no answer. With hasty yet hesitating imprudence, he opened the door and peeped in. Thomas was upon his knees by the fireside, with his plaid over he raised his head, and his rugged leonine face, his head. Startled by the weaver's entrance, red with wrath, glared out of the thicket of his plaid upon the intruder. He did not rise, for that would have been a task requiring time and caution. But he cried aloud in a hoarse voice, with his two hands leaning on the chair, like the paws of some fierce rampant animal: upo' ye, drivin' a man frae his prayers!' “Jeames, ye're takin' the pairt o' Sawtan

and other men, are not inconsistent with an | Crann.
infinite depth of tenderness, with which we
are very gradually permitted to become
acquainted. There is a sober and masculine
strength of character in him, as in a good
many Scotchmen both of his own rank, and
a higher, which hides from the careless ob-
server his strength of feeling. And there
can be no question that Mr. Mac Donald is
rendering an important service to truth
when he shows us how much tenderness and
catholic breadth of sympathy is consistent,
even with the harsher doctrines of the sys-
tem that is preached by Thomas Crann and
the Missionar' Kirk. For Thomas is any
thing but a gloomy fanatic. He is an aus-
tere man, who comprehends far too clearly
the difference between good and evil to slur
over the sinfulness, or palter with the misery
of himself or his neighbours; or to endure,
without just indignation, what he calls "a
saft way o' dealin' with eternal truth and
perishing men." He has the solid logical
intellect, very common in Scotchmen-
whether their school-learning be great or
little--for which a complete and consistent
system has a stronger fascination than deeper
and more fruitful truths, which confess their
incompleteness. But his system is anything
but a mere form of doctrine. It is a part
of his very being--the life of his life; and
ennobles the practical goodness, of which his
days are full. Its severity lends additional
brightness to the wonderful gleams of ten-
derness which every now and then break
through; and if, after all, it still appears
hard and narrow, he is only another illustra-
tion of David Elginbrod's wise saying
"There is something far better than his
opinions in the heart of every God-fearing
body." That, indeed, is a saying which Mr.
Mac Donald never forgets, in his picture of
those northern Puritans. Opinions, feel-
ings, and professions in regard to religion,
form so large a part of the lives of the peo-
ple he is describing, that it is impossible to
give any true picture of their character, and
give these things the go-by. And Mr. Mac
Donald's genius and temperament exactly
fit him for dealing with this most profound,
and intricate, of all regions of the human
mind. Other authors before him have given
us pictures of devotion, but we know no one
who has represented, with greater power
and beauty, such widely different spiritual
emotions. Nothing can be finer in this
than his picture of the conflict between spon-
taneous feeling and traditional teaching, the
religion of love and the religion of fear, in
the troubled spirit of little Annie Anderson,
unless, indeed, it be the still more marvellous
blending of those mighty opposites in Thomas

way

"Hoot, Thamas! I beg yer pardon,' answered the weaver, rather flurried; 'I thoucht ye micht hae been asleep.'

"Ye had no business to think for yoursel' in sic a maitter. What do ye want?'

"I jist cam' to see whether ye war in want o' onything, Thamas.'

ye.'

"I'm in want o' naething. Gude-nicht to

"But, railly, Thamas,' expostulated the weaver, emboldened by his own kindness'ye'll excuse me, but ye hae nae business to gang doon on yer knees, wi' yer leg in sic a weyk condeetion.'

aboot my leg? And what's the use o' knees, "I winna excuse ye, Jeames. What ken ye but to gang doon upo'? Gang hame, and gang doon upo' yer ain, Jeames; and dinna disturb ither fowk that ken what theirs was made for.'

"Thus admonished, the weaver dared not

linger. As he turned to shut the door, he wished the mason good-night, but received no answer. Thomas had sunk forward upon the chair, and had already drawn his plaid over his head.

“But the secret place of the Most High will not be entered after this fashion; and Thomas felt that he was shut out.

"He knelt still and sighed sore.

"At length another knock came, which, although very gentle, he heard and knew well enough.

with a fresh access of indignant feeling.
"Who's there?' he asked, notwithstanding,

"Annie Anderson,' was the answer through the door, in a tone which at once soothed the ruffled waters of Thomas's spirit.

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stan' your blin'ness, as it may be for you to unnerstan' oor sicht.'

"Deed maybe neyther o''s kens muckle aboot oor ain gift either o' sicht or blin'ness.Say onything ye like, gin ye dinna tell me, as the bairn here ance did, that I cudna ken what the licht was. I kenna what yer sicht may be, and I'm thinkin' I care as little. But weel ken I what the licht is.' 'Tibbie, dinna be ill-nater'd, like me. Ye hae no call to that same. I'm tryin' to answer your question. And gin ye interrup' me again, I'll rise an' gang hame.'

666

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Say awa', Thamas. Never heed me. I'm some cankert whiles. I ken that weel eneuch.' "Ye hae nae business to be cankert, Tibbie?'

"Nae mair nor ither fowk.'

"Less, Tibbie; less, woman.'

O Lord, wha dwellest in the licht inaccessible, whom mortal eye hath not seen nor can see, but who dwellest with him that is humble and contrite of heart, and liftest the licht o' thy countenance upo' them that seek it, O Lord,'-here the solemnity of the appeal gave way before the outbursting agony of Thomas's heart O Lord, dinna lat's cry in vain, this thy lammie, and me thine auld sinner, but for the sake o' him wha did no sin, forgive my sins and my vile temper, and help me to love my "Ye dinna see the things to anger ye that neighbour as mysel'. Lat Christ dwell in me ither fowk sees.-As I cam' doon the street this and syne I shall be meek and lowly of heart❘ minute, I cam' upo' twa laddies-ye ken them like him. Put thy Speerit in me, and syne I-they're twins-ane o' them cripple' shall do richt-no frae mysel', for I hae no good thing in me, but frae thy Speerit that dwelleth in us.'

"After this prayer, Thomas felt refreshed and hopeful. With slow labour he rose from his knees at last, and sinking into his chair, drew Annie towards him, and kissed her. Then he said,

"Will ye gang a bit eeran' for me, Annie?' "That I will, Thomas. I wad rin mysel' aff o' my legs for ye.'

"Hoo mak' ye that oot?" asked Tibbie, defensively.

666

'Ay, that was Murdoch Malison's wark!' interposed Tibbie, with indignant reminiscence. "The man 's been sorry for 't, this mony a day,' said Thomas; 'sae we maunna come ower 't again, Tibbie.'

"Verra weel, Thamas; I s' haud my tongue. What about the laddies?'

"They were fetchin' i' the verra street; ruggin' ane anither's heids, an' peggin' at ane anither's noses, an' doin' their verra endeevour to destroy the image o' the Almichty-it wasna muckle o' 't that was left to blaud. I teuk and throosh them baith.'

"Na, na. I dinna want sae muckle rinnin' the nicht. But I wad be sair obleeged to ye, gin ye wad jist rin doon to Jeames Johnstone, "An' what cam' o' the image o' the Althe weyver, and tell him, wi' my coampliments, michty?' asked Tibbie, with a grotesque conye ken, that I'm verra sorry I spak' till him as tortion of her mouth, and a roll of her veiled I did the nicht; and I wad tak it richt kin' o' eye-balls. 'I doobt, Thamas,' she continued, him, gin he wad come and tak a cup o' tay wi''ye angert yersel' mair nor ye quaietit them me the morn's nicht, and we cud hae a crack thegither, and syne we cud hae worship thegithAnd tell him he maunna think nae mair o' the way I spak till him, for I was troubled i' my min', and I'm an ill-nater'd man.'

er.

"I'll tell him a' that ye say,' answered Annie, as weel's I can min' 't; and I's warran' I's no forget muckle o''t. Wad ye like me to come back the nicht and tell ye what he says?' "Na, na, lassie. It'll be near han' time for ye to gang to yer bed. And it's a cauld nicht. I ken that by my leg. And ye see Jeames Johnstone's no an ill-nater'd man like

me.

He's a douce man, and he's sure to be weel-pleased and come till 's tay. Na, na; ye needna come back. Guid-nicht to ye, my dawtie. The Lord bless ye for comin' to pray wi' an ill-nater'd man.'

We must extract also a conversation with Tibbie Dyster. Tibbie has asked him whether there is any likeness between the light "she canna see and that soun' o'rinnin' water she loves so weel to hear."

"Weel, ye see, Tibbie," answered Thomas, "it's nearhan' as ill for the like o' us to unnerVOL. XLV.

N-2

wi' the thrashin'. The wrath o' man, ye ken, Thamas, worketh not the richtyisness o' God."

"There was not a person in Glamerton who would have dared to speak thus to Thomas Crann but Tibbie Dyster, perhaps because there was not one who had such a respect for him. Possibly the darkness about her made her bolder; but I think it was her truth, which is another word for love, however unlike love the outcome may look, that made her able to speak in this fashion.

"Thomas was silent for a long minute. Then he said:

"Maybe ye're i' the richt, Tibbie. Ye aye anger me; but I wad raither hae a body anger me wi' tellin' me the trowth, nor I wad hae a' the fair words i' the dictionar'. It's a strange thing, wumman, but aye whan a body 's tryin' maist to gang upricht, he 's sure to catch a dreidfu' fa'. There I hae been warstlin' wi' my ill-temper mair nor ever I did i' my life afore; and I never i' my days lickit twa laddies for lickin' ane anither till jist this verra day. And I prayed against mysel' afore I cam' oot. I canna win at the boddom o''t.'' "There 's waur things nor an ill-temper, Thomas.'

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