'I hae heard o' him,' said Robert.'What was he?'
'A player kin' o' a chiel', wi' an unco sicht o' brains,' answered John.'He cudna hae had muckle time to gang skelpin' and sornin'
aboot the country like maist o' thae cattle, gin he vrote a' that, I'm thinkin'.'
'Whaur did he bide?'
'Awa' in Englan'--maistly aboot Lonnon, I'm thinkin'.That's the place for a' by-ordinar fowk, they tell me.'
'Hoo lang is 't sin he deid?'
'I dinna ken.A hunner year or twa, I s' warran'.It's a lang time.But I'm thinkin' fowk than was jist something like what they are noo.But I ken unco little aboot him, for the prent 's some sma', and I'm some ill for losin' my characters, and sae I dinna win that far benn wi' him.Geordie there 'll tell ye mair aboot him.'
But George Hewson had not much to communicate, for he had but lately landed in Shakspere's country, and had got but a little way inland yet.Nor did Robert much care, for his head was full of The Arabian Nights.This, however, was his first introduction to Shakspere.
Finding himself much at home, he stopped yet a while, shared in the supper, and resumed his seat in the corner when the book was brought out for worship.The iron lamp, with its wick of rush-pith, which hung against the side of the chimney, was lighted, and John sat down to read.But as his eyes and the print, too, had grown a little dim with years, the lamp was not enough, and he asked for a 'fir-can'le.' A splint of fir dug from the peat-bog was handed to him.He lighted it at the lamp, and held it in his hand over the page.Its clear resinous flame enabled him to read a short psalm.
Then they sang a most wailful tune, and John prayed.If I were to give the prayer as he uttered it, I might make my reader laugh, therefore I abstain, assuring him only that, although full of long words--amongst the rest, aspiration and ravishment--the prayer of the cheerful, joke-loving cottar contained evidence of a degree of religious development rare, I doubt, amongst bishops.
When Robert left the cottage, he found the sky partly clouded and the air cold.The nearest way home was across the barley-stubble of the day's reaping, which lay under a little hill covered with various species of the pine.His own soul, after the restful day he had spent, and under the reaction from the new excitement of the stories he had been reading, was like a quiet, moonless night.The thought of his mother came back upon him, and her written words, 'OLord, my heart is very sore'; and the thought of his father followed that, and he limped slowly home, laden with mournfulness.As he reached the middle of the field, the wind was suddenly there with a low sough from out of the north-west.The heads of barley in the sheaves leaned away with a soft rustling from before it; and Robert felt for the first time the sadness of a harvest-field.Then the wind swept away to the pine-covered hill, and raised a rushing and a wailing amongst its thin-clad branches, and to the ear of Robert the trees were singing over again in their night solitudes the air sung by the cottar's family.When he looked to the north-west, whence the wind came, he saw nothing but a pale cleft in the sky.The meaning, the music of the night awoke in his soul; he forgot his lame foot, and the weight of Mr.Lammie's great boots, ran home and up the stair to his own room, seized his violin with eager haste, nor laid it down again till he could draw from it, at will, a sound like the moaning of the wind over the stubble-field.Then he knew that he could play the Flowers of the Forest.The Wind that Shakes the Barley cannot have been named from the barley after it was cut, but while it stood in the field: the Flowers of the Forest was of the gathered harvest.
He tried the air once over in the dark, and then carried his violin down to the room where Mr.and Miss Lammie sat.
'I think I can play 't noo, Mr.Lammie,' he said abruptly.
'Play what, callant?' asked his host.
'The Flooers o' the Forest.'
'Play awa' than.'
And Robert played--not so well as he had hoped.I dare say it was a humble enough performance, but he gave something at least of the expression Mr.Lammie desired.For, the moment the tune was over, he exclaimed,'Weel dune, Robert man! ye'll be a fiddler some day yet!'
And Robert was well satisfied with the praise.
'I wish yer mother had been alive,' the farmer went on.'She wad hae been rael prood to hear ye play like that.Eh! she likit the fiddle weel.And she culd play bonny upo' the piana hersel'.It was something to hear the twa o' them playing thegither, him on the fiddle--that verra fiddle o' 's father's 'at ye hae i' yer han'--and her on the piana.Eh! but she was a bonnie wuman as ever I saw, an'
that quaiet! It's my belief she never thocht aboot her ain beowty frae week's en' to week's en', and that's no sayin' little--is 't, Aggy?'
'I never preten't ony richt to think aboot sic,' returned Miss Lammie, with a mild indignation.
'That's richt, lass.Od, ye're aye i' the richt--though I say 't 'at sudna.'
Miss Lammie must indeed have been good-natured, to answer only with a genuine laugh.Shargar looked explosive with anger.But Robert would fain hear more of his mother.
'What was my mother like, Mr.Lammie?' he asked.
'Eh, my man! ye suld hae seen her upon a bonnie bay mere that yer father gae her.Faith! she sat as straught as a rash, wi' jist a hing i' the heid o' her, like the heid o' a halm o' wild aits.'
'My father wasna that ill till her than?' suggested Robert.
'Wha ever daured say sic a thing?' returned Mr.Lammie, but in a tone so far from satisfactory to Robert, that he inquired no more in that direction.
I need hardly say that from that night Robert was more than ever diligent with his violin.
