PREFACE.

Next to its Ballads and Songs, the Stories of Scottish Literature are the most characteristic exponents of the national spirit. Allowing for the changes which time and the progress of civilization have effected in the national manners and character since the beginning of the present century—the era to which the Stories chiefly refer—they shall be found to delineate the social and domestic features of Scottish life as faithfully as the Ballads do the spirit and sentiment of an earlier age; or as the daily press reflects, rather than portrays, those of the present day. While Songs—the simple expressions of feelings and sentiments, musically rendered—change, in so far as they exhibit habits and manners, yet their form is lasting. Not so the Ballads, whose true historical successors are Prose Stories, as Novels are those of Romances.

Whether we account for it on the theory that a larger infusion of the imaginative and romantic elements, characteristic of the Celtic race, gives additional fervour to the Scottish character, or otherwise, it is a fact that in no other community, on the same social level as that of the peasantry and working-classes of Scotland, has this form of literature had so enthusiastic a reception. There can be no doubt that this widely diffused and keen appreciation, by an earnest and self-respecting people, of Stories which are largely graphic delineations of their own national features, has been the chief stimulus to the production of so large and excellent a supply as our literature contains.

The present Selection is made on the principle of giving the best specimens of the most popular authors, with as great a variety, as to subjects, as is compatible with these conditions.

The favourable reception of the issue in the serial form, both by the press and the public, is looked upon by the projectors as an earnest—now that the book is completed—that its further reception will be such as to assure them that they have not fallen short of the aim announced in their prospectus, viz., to form a Collection of Standard Scottish Tales calculated to delight the imagination, to convey interesting information, and to elevate and strengthen the moral principles of the young.

Edinburgh, August 1876.

THE HENPECKED MAN.

Every one has heard the phrase, “Go to Birgham!” which signifies much the same as bidding you go to a worse place. The phrase is familiar not only on the borders, but throughout all Scotland, and has been in use for more than five hundred years, having taken its rise from Birgham being the place where the Scottish nobility were when they dastardly betrayed their country into the hands of the first Edward; and the people, despising the conduct and the cowardice of the nobles, have rendered the saying, “Go to Birgham!” an expression of contempt until this day. Many, however, may have heard the saying, and even used it, who know not that Birgham is a small village, beautifully situated on the north side of the Tweed, about midway between Coldstream and Kelso; though, if I should say that the village itself is beautiful, I should be speaking on the wrong side of the truth. Yet there may be many who have both heard the saying and seen the place, who never heard of little Patie Crichton, the bicker-maker. Patie was of diminutive stature, and he followed the profession

(if the members of the learned professions be not offended at my using the term) of a cooper, or bicker-maker, in Birgham for many years. His neighbours used to say of him, “The puir body’s henpecked.”

Patie was in the habit of attending the neighbouring fairs with the water-cogs, cream-bowies, bickers, piggins, and other articles of his manufacture. It was Dunse fair, and Patie said he “had done extraordinar’ weel—the sale had been far beyond what he expeckit.” His success might be attributed to the circumstance that, when out of the sight and hearing of his better half, for every bicker he sold he gave his customers half-a-dozen jokes into the bargain. Every one, therefore, liked to deal with little Patie. The fair being over, he retired with a crony to a public-house in the Castle Wynd, to crack of old stories over a glass, and inquire into each other’s welfare. It was seldom they met, and it was as seldom that Patie dared to indulge in a single glass; but, on the day in question, he thought they could manage another gill, and another was brought. Whether the sight of it reminded him of his domestic miseries, and of what awaited him at home, I cannot tell; but after drinking another glass, and pronouncing the spirits excellent, he thus addressed his friend:—

“Ay, Robin” (his friend’s name was Robin Roughead), “ye’re a happy man—ye’re maister in your ain hoose, and ye’ve a wife that adores and obeys ye; but I’m nae better than naebody at my ain fireside. I’ll declare I’m waur: wife an’ bairns laugh at me—I’m treated like an outlan’ body an’ a fule. Though without me they micht gang an’ beg, there is nae mair respeck paid to me than if I were a pair o’ auld bauchels flung into a corner. Fifteen years syne I couldna believed it o’ Tibby, though onybody had sworn it to me. I firmly believe that a gude wife is the greatest blessin’ that can be conferred upon a man on this earth. I can imagine it by the treasure that my faither had in my mither; for, though the best may hae words atween them occasionally, and I’m no saying that they hadna, yet they were just like passin’ showers, to mak the kisses o’ the sun upon the earth mair sweet after them. Her whole study was to please him and to mak him comfortable. She was never happy but when he was happy; an’ he was just the same wi’ her. I’ve

heard him say that she was worth untold gold. But, O Robin! if I think that a guid wife is the greatest blessin’ a man can enjoy, weel do I ken that a scoldin’, domineerin’ wife is his greatest curse. It’s a terrible thing to be snooled in your ain house—naebody can form an idea o’t but they wha experience it.

“Ye remember when I first got acquainted wi’ Tibby, she was doing the bondage work at Riselaw. I first saw her coming out o’ Eccles kirk ae day, and I really thocht that I had never seen a better-faured or a more gallant-looking lass. Her cheeks were red and white like a half-ripe strawberry, or rather, I should say, like a cherry; and she seemed as modest and meek as a lamb. It wasna very lang until I drew up; and though she didna gie me ony great encouragement at first, yet, in a week or twa, after the ice was fairly broken, she became remarkably ceevil, and gied me her oxter on a Sunday. We used to saunter about the loanings, no saying meikle, but unco happy; and I was aye restless whan I was out o’ her sight. Ye may guess that the shoemaker was nae loser by it during the six months that I ran four times a-week, wet or dry, between Birgham and Riselaw. But the term-time was drawing nigh, and I put the important question, and pressed her to name the day. She hung her head, and she seemed no to ken weel what to say; for she was sae mim and sae gentle then,

that ye wad hae said ‘butter wadna melt in her mouth.’ And when I pressed her mair urgently—

“‘I’ll just leave it to yoursel, Peter,’ says she.

“I thocht my heart wad louped out at my mouth. I believe there never was a man sae beside himsel wi’ joy in this warld afore. I fairly danced again, and cut as many antics as a merryandrew. ‘O Tibby,’ says I,

“‘I hope no, Peter,’ said she; ‘I wad rather hae ye to live than dee for me.’

“I thocht she was as sensible as she was bonny, and better natured than baith.

“Weel, I got the house set up, the wedding-day cam, and everything passed ower as agreeably as onybody could desire. I thocht Tibby turning bonnier and bonnier. For the first five or six days after the weddin’, everything was ‘hinny,’ and ‘my love,’ and ‘Tibby, dear,’ or ‘Peter, dear.’ But matters didna stand lang at this. It was on a Saturday nicht, I mind, just afore I was gaun to drap work, that three or four acquaintances cam into the shop to wush me joy, and they insisted I should pay off for the weddin’. Ye ken I never was behint hand; and I agreed that I wad just fling on my coat and step up wi’ them to Orange Lane. So I gaed into the house and took down my market coat, which was hangin’ behint the bed; and after that I gaed to the kist to tak out a shilling or twa; for, up to that time, Tibby had not usurped the office of Chancellor o’ the Exchequer. I did it as cannily as I could; but she had suspected something, and heard the jinkin’ o’ the siller.

“What are ye doing, Patie?’ says she; ‘whar are ye gaun?’

“I had never heard her voice hae sic a sound afore, save the first time I drew up to her, when it was rather sharp than agreeable.

“‘Ou, my dear,’ says I, ‘I’m just gaun up to Orange Lane a wee while.’

“‘To Orange Lane!’ says she; ‘what in the name of fortune’s gaun to tak ye there?’

“‘O hinny,’ says I, ‘it’s just a neebor lad or twa that’s drapped in to wush us joy, and, ye ken, we canna but be neebor-like.’

“‘Ay! the sorrow joy them!’ says she, ‘and neebor too!—an’ how meikle will that cost ye?’

“‘Hoot, Tibby,’ says I, for I was quite astonished at her, ‘ye dinna understand things, woman.’

“‘No understand them!’ says she; ‘I wish to gudeness that ye wad understand them though! If that’s the way ye intend to mak the siller flee, it’s time there were somebody to tak care o’t.’

“I had put the siller in my pocket, and was gaun to the door mair surprised than I can weel express, when she cried to me—

“‘Mind what ye spend, and see that ye dinna stop.’

“‘Ye need be under nae apprehensions o’ that, hinny,’ said I, wishing to pacify her.

“‘See that it be sae,’ cried she, as I shut the door.

“I joined my neebors in a state of greater uneasiness o’ mind than I had experienced for a length o’ time. I couldna help thinkin’ but that Tibby had rather early begun to tak the upper hand, and it was what I never expected from her. However, as I was saying, we went up to Orange Lane, and we sat doun, and ae gill brocht on anither. Tibby’s health and mine were drunk; we had several capital sangs; and, I daresay, it was weel on for ten o’clock afore we rose to gang awa. I was nae mair affected wi’ drink than I am at this moment. But, somehow or ither, I was uneasy at the idea o’ facing Tibby. I thought it would be a terrible thing to quarrel wi’ her. I opened the door, and, bolting it after me, slipped in, half on the edge o’ my fit. She was sitting wi’ her hand at her haffit by the side o’ the fire, but she never let on that she either saw or heard me—she didna speak a single word. If ever there was a woman—

it was her that nicht. I drew in a chair, and, though I was half-feared to speak—

“‘What’s the matter, my pet?’ says I—‘what’s happened ye?’

“But she sat looking into the fire, and never let on she heard me. ‘E’en’s ye like, Meg Dorts,’ thought I, as Allan Ramsay says; but I durstna say it, for I saw that there was a storm brewing. At last, I ventured to say again—

“‘What ails ye, Tibby, dear?—are ye no weel?’

“‘Weel!’ cried she—‘wha can be weel? Is this the way ye mean to carry on? What a time o’ nicht is this to keep a body to, waiting and fretting on o’ ye, their lane? Do you no think shame o’ yoursel?’

“‘Hoot, woman,’ says I, ‘I’m surprised at ye; I’m sure ye hae naething to mak a wark about—it’s no late yet.’

“‘I dinna ken what ye ca’ late,’ said she; ‘it wadna be late amang yer cronies, nae doubt; but if it’s no late, it’s early, for I warrant it’s mornin’.’

“‘Nonsense!’ says I.

“‘Dinna tell me it’s nonsense,’ said she, ‘for I’ll be spoken to in nae sic way—I’ll let you ken that. But how meikle has it cost ye? Ye wad be treating them, nae doubt—and how meikle hae ye spent, if it be a fair question?’

“‘Toots, Tibby!’ said I, ‘whar’s the cause for a’ this? What great deal could it cost me?’

“‘But hair by hair maks the carle’s head bare,’ added she—‘mind ye that; and mind ye that ye’ve a house to keep aboon your head noo. But, if ye canna do it, I maun do it for ye—sae gie me the key o’ that kist—gie me it instantly; and I’ll tak care how ye gang drinkin’ wi’ ony body and treatin’ them till mornin’ again.’

“For the sake o’ peace I gied her the key; for she was speakin’ sae loud that I thocht a’ the neebors wad hear—and she had nae suner got it, than awa she gaed to the kist and counted every shilling. I had nae great abundance then mair than I’ve now; and—

“‘Is that a’ ye hae?’ said she; ‘an’ yet ye’ll think o’ gaun drinkin’ and treatin’ folk frae Saturday nicht till Sabbath mornin’! If this is the life ye intend to lead, I wush to gudeness I had ne’er had onything to say to ye.’

“‘And if this is the life ye intend to lead me,’ thought I, ‘I wush the same thing.’

“But that was but the beginnin’ o’ my slavery. From that hour to this she has continued on from bad to worse. No man livin’ can form an idea o’ what I’ve suffered but mysel. In a mornin’, or rather, I may say, in a forenoon, for it was aye nine or ten o’clock afore she got up, she sat doun to her tea and white scones and butter, while I had to be content wi’ a scrimpit bicker o’ brose and sour milk for kitchen. Nor was this the warst o’t; for, when I cam in frae my wark for my breakfast, mornin’ after mornin’, the fire was black out; and there had I, before I could get a bite to put in my mouth, to bend doun upon my knees and blaw it, and blaw it, till I was half-blind wi’ ashes—for we hadna a pair o’ bellowses; and there wad she lie grumblin’ a’ the time, ca’in’ me useless this, and useless that; and I just had to put up wi’ it. But after our first bairn was born, she grew far worse, and I becam mair and mair miserable every day. If I had been sleeping through the nicht, and the bairn had begun a kickin’, or whingin’—then she

was at the scoldin’, and I was sure to be started out o’ my sleep wi’ a great drive atween the shouthers, and her cryin’—

“‘Get up, ye lazy body, ye—get up, and see what’s the maiter wi’ this bairn.’

“An’ this was the trade half-a-dizen o’ times in a nicht.

“At last, there was ae day, when a’ that I had dune was simply saying a word about the denner no bein’ ready, and afore ever I kenned whar I was, a cracky-stool that she had bought for the bairn cam fleein’ across the room, and gied me a dirl on the elbow, that made me think my arm was broken. Ye may guess what a stroke it was, when I tell ye I couldna lift my hand to my head for a week to come. Noo, the like o’ that, ye ken, was what mortal man couldna stand.

“‘Tibby,’ said I, and I looked very desperate and determined, ‘what do ye mean by this conduct? By a’ that’s gracious, I’ll no put up wi’ it ony langer!’

“‘Ye’ll no put up wi’ it, ye cratur!’ said she; ‘if ye gie me ony mair o’ yer provocation, I’ll pu’ yer lugs for ye—wull ye put up wi’ that?’

“It was terrible for a man to hear his ain wife ca’ him a cratur!—just as if I had been a monkey or a laup-doug!

“‘O ye disdainfu’ limmer,’ thought I; ‘but if I could humble your proud spirit, I wad do it!’ Weel, there was a grand new ballant hawkin’ about the country at the time—it was ca’d ‘Watty and Meg’—ye have nae doubt seen’t. Meg was just such a terrible termagant as my Tibby; and I remembered the perfect reformation that was wrought upon her by Watty’s bidding her fareweel, and threatenin’ to list. So it just struck me that I wad tak a leaf out o’ the ballant. Therefore, keeping the same serious and determined look, for I was in no humour to seem otherwise—‘Tibby,’ says I, ‘there shall be nae mair o’ this. But I will gang and list this very day, and ye’ll see what will come ower ye then—ye’ll maybe repent o’ yer conduct whan it’s ower late.’

“‘List! ye totum ye!’ said she; ‘do ye say list?’ and she said this in a tone and wi’ a look o’ derision that gaed through my very soul. ‘What squad will ye list into?—what regiment will tak ye? Do ye intend to list for a fifer laddie?’ And as she said this, she held up her oxter, as if to tak me below’t.

“I thought I wad hae drapped doun wi’ indignation. I could hae strucken her, if I durst. Ye observe, I am just five feet twa inches and an eighth, upon my stockin’-soles. That is rather below the army standard—and I maun say it’s a very foolish standard; for a man o’ my height stands a better chance to shoot anither than a giant that wad fire ower his head. But she was aware that I was below the mark, and my threat was of no avail; so I had just to slink awa into the shop, rubbin’ my elbow.

“But the cracky-stool was but the beginning o’ her drivin’; there wasna a week after that but she let flee at me whatever cam in the way, whenever I by accident crossed her cankered humour. It’s a wonder that I’m in the land o’ the living; for I’ve had the skin peeled off my legs—my arms maistly broken—my head cut, and ither parts o’ my body a’ black and blue, times out o’ number. I thought her an angel when I was courtin’ her; but, O Robin! she has turned out—I’ll no say what—an adder!—a teeger!—a she fury!

“As for askin’ onybody into the house, it’s a thing I durstna do for the life that’s in my body. I never did it but ance, and that was when an auld schulefellow, that had been several years in America, ca’ed at the shop to see me. After we had cracked a while—

“‘But I maun see the wife, Patie,’ says he.

“Whether he had heard aboot her behaviour or no, I canna tell; but, I assure ye, his request was onything but agreeable to me. However, I took him into the house, and I introduced him wi’ fear and tremblin’.

“‘Tibby, dear,’ said I—and I dinna think I had ca’ed her dear for ten years afore—‘here’s Mr W——, an auld schulefellow o’ mine, that’s come a’ the way frae America, an’ ca’ed in to see ye.’

“‘Ye’re aye meetin’ wi’ auld schulefellows, or some set or ither, to tak ye aff yer wark,’ muttered she, sulkily, but loud enough for him to hear.

“I was completely at a loss what to do or say next; but, pretending as though I hadna heard her, I said, as familiarly and kindly as I could, though my heart was in a terrible swither—‘Bring out the bottle, lass.’

“‘Bottle!’ quo’ she, ‘what bottle?—what does the man mean?—has he pairted wi’ the little sense that he ever had?’ But had ye seen her as she said this!—I’ve seen a cloud black when driven wi’ a hurricane, and I’ve seen it awfu’ when roarin’ in the agony o’ thunder; but never did I see onything that I was mair in fear o’ than my wife’s face at that moment. But, somehow or ither, I gathered courage to say—‘Hoots, woman, what’s the use o’ behavin’ that way? I’m sure ye ken weel aneugh it’s the speerit bottle.’

“‘The speerit bottle!’ cried she, wi’ a scream; ‘and when was there a speerit bottle within this door? Dinna show yoursel off to your American freend for a greater man than ye are, Patie. I think, if wi’ a’ that ye bring in I get meat and bits o’ duds for your bairns, I do very weel.’