BITS FROM BLINKBONNY.
BITS FROM BLINKBONNY.
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THE MANSE AND ITS INMATES.
“But how the subject theme may gang,Let time and chance determine;Perhaps it may turn out a sang,Perhaps turn out a sermon.”—Burns.
“But how the subject theme may gang,Let time and chance determine;Perhaps it may turn out a sang,Perhaps turn out a sermon.”—Burns.
“But how the subject theme may gang,Let time and chance determine;Perhaps it may turn out a sang,Perhaps turn out a sermon.”—Burns.
“But how the subject theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.”—Burns.
AN eminent artist, a member of the Royal Scottish Academy, who, although well up in the seventies, and feeling many of the infirmities of advanced age, still continues to enrich the world by as charming landscapes and crisp sea-pieces as he produced in his younger days, was showing me some of his sketches from nature, many of them bearing traces of repeated handling. His face brightened up when a well-thumbed favourite was lighted on amongst the promiscuous contents of the old portfolio. With his eye fixed on the sketch, and his hand moving as if either the pencil or the brush were in it, he told with animation where he made this sketch or took that “bit.”
THE ARTIST AND HIS “BITS.”
“Ah!” said he, “painting is a difficult, a very difficult thing; in fact, it’s just made up of ‘bits’—just bits. A something takes your eye,—a nook, a clump of trees, often a single tree, a boulder, or rocks (grand effects of light and shade on rocks)—ay, even the shape or tinge of a cloud. Well, to work you go, and down with it.—There,” said he, as he lifted what seemed a mere scrawl on a half-sheet of old note-paper, “I took that at the Bank door. I was struck with the effect of the sunlight on water falling over a barrel that a man was filling in the river, and thought it would make a nice picture. I got that bit of paper out of the Bank, took off my hat, laid the paper on it, sketched it off in—oh! less than five minutes, and put it on canvas next day. There’s another. I did that bit on the leaf of my fishing pocket-book at Makumrich, near old Gilston Castle. Now there,” said he, taking up a rough-looking, unfinished sea-scene in oil, “that has been a very useful bit. I was sketching North Berwick Harbour, when all at once I was struck with an effect of light and shade on the sea. I was able to hit it exactly;” and as he said this, he moved his head from side to side and scanned the picture, saying, “That bit has been of great use to me, although I have never made a finished picture of it. The ‘effect,’ the gleam, the tone are as nearlyperfect as possible. Ah,” continued he, laying down the sketch, and turning to his easel, on which lay a snow scene,—an old thatched cottage, in my opinion quite finished,—“now there’s lots of bits to work up in that picture.” And sometimes shaking his brush, and sometimes whirling it in a very small circle close to the picture, but never touching it, he said, “There—and there—and perhaps there. Ah! nobody would believe what a labour it is to make a good picture, with all thebitsandbits!”
I am but an aspirant in literature, and would never presume to compare myself with the veteran artist, or think that I could ever arrange my bits of village gossip and incident with the artistic skill which has earned for him the order of merit that he has so honourably won and so worthily wears, but I confess to a desire to present some of the bits of the everyday social life of Blinkbonny in such a form as to give my readers an idea of its lights and shadows.
Blinkbonny is more of a village than a town, although it is generally spoken of by the outside world as a town, owing to its having its small weekly market and occasional fairs. It lies fully thirty miles inland from Edinburgh, and is the centre of a good agricultural district, with a background of moorland and hills. My father was a merchant in it,—a very generalmerchant, as he dealt in grain, wool, seeds, groceries, cloth, hardware, and various other commodities. This may seem a strange mixture in these days of the division of labour and subdivision of trades, but such dealers were not uncommon fifty years ago, and they were frequently men of considerable capital and influence. My elder and only brother was a partner with my father in the business; and as I had early expressed a desire to be a minister, I was sent to Edinburgh to prosecute my studies in that direction, and had completed my fourth session at college, when the death of my brother rendered it necessary that I should do all in my power to supply his place.
THE FOLKS AT GREENKNOWE.
I had been but a few months at home, when my father, whose health had been failing for some years, became a confirmed invalid. My brother’s death had not only affected his spirits, but injured his health, and within little more than a year after this heavy trial the old man was laid beside his wife and eldest son in the churchyard of Blinkbonny. My sisters, all of them older than myself, were married, excepting Maggie; and about a year after my father’s death Maggie became Mrs. McLauchlan, so that I was left a very young inmate of Bachelor Hall. When I had time to feel lonely I did so, but the demands of business kept me thoroughly employed; and although I joined habituallyin the socialities of the neighbourhood, I did not seriously think of getting married until I was called on to act as bridegroom’s man to my schoolfellow and college companion, John McNab, now the Reverend John McNab. He married Mary Stewart of Greenknowe, the daughter of a small proprietor on the outskirts of our village. Her sister Agnes was bridesmaid, and we were necessarily brought a good deal into one another’s society. I had often met her before, and liked her in a general way, but at her sister’s marriage I came fully under the influence of her charms. There was something—well, something—I cannot describe it by any other word than just “something”—that fairly possessed me. For days afterwards she was in my head, in my dreams, in my heart. I will not describe our courtship; it was neither long nor romantic. I wooed and won her, got Mrs. Stewart’s consent, and on New Year’s Day 1841 we fixed that our marriage should take place in the last week of January.
Mrs. Stewart felt the cold weather severely, and could not venture to call at the manse to request Mr. Barrie, our worthy parish minister, to perform the ceremony. She asked Agnes to go in her stead, but Agnes could not muster courage to do so—she even felt too shy to write to Mr. Barrie; so, although it was not exactly according to the strict rules of etiquetteI promised to call on Mr. Barrie next day, and to arrange the matter with him.