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IAN ALLANACH (continued)
LORD MACAULAY was wont to
say that, should Milton’s “Paradise Lost” happen to be destroyed, he
believed he could restore every line of it from memory, and the same
might have been said of George Brown with respect to Ossian’s poems. It
is deeply to be regretted that the mantle of his genius did not descend
to some one of his many listeners. Mere fragments—a line here and
there—is all that the memories of those who heard them most frequently
have retained of many a heroic poem, soft song, and sad elegy. Even
these fragments are now gone into irrecoverable oblivion with the
decease of the few who attempted to commit them to memory.
It is not difficult to assign a sufficient reason for the loss of this
lore. A change of manners, of taste, or of occupation among a people
does much to obliterate the recollection of a literature, born and bred
in a state of society that has passed away and lost its interest But
more effectual than any or all of these is a change of language. Such a
change had, indeed, made some progress on Deeside during the lifetime of
George Brown, but within a period of twenty years after his death it had
reached an entire revolution. In 1830 there was scarcely a family in the
district in which he resided whose fireside language was not the Gaelic.
In 1850 there were just as few who had not adopted the English; and now
(1870) only very old people use the ancient tongue. The prose traditions
may still be gathered up, because during the transition they were
frequently repeated in both languages; but it has fared otherwise with
the poetic, which do not admit of a translation without loss of
character, and consequently of interest
Many years ago the writer heard an aged person repeat a good few lines
of a poem styled the Oatgeann (Skull) which is said to have been a
favourite with George. The poem seemed to be somewhat in the strain of
Blair’s “ Grave,” but the reflections were more quaint and less
philosophical, though, from the unconnected lines remembered and the
manner of the reciter, it was difficult to form a decided opinion: a
couplet, then a long pause with serious efforts at recollection, then an
exclamation — “Oh, if I could remember,” then another couplet, then a
longer pause with more strenuous efforts at recollection, then another
exclamation—“Oh! it was beautiful! but I have foigot it”
The writer has never met with anyone in the Highlands who was in the
least acquainted with it, and he has in consequence been laid to fancy
that it must have been a fugitive piece by the author of “The
Sheriffmuir” himself, the effect of which he may have been playfully
trying on George. If such indeed was its origin, it is doubly to be
regretted that it has perished, as it was likely to have had an
excellence not often attained by Gaelic poetry.
Had this good man survived a few years longer, it is not improbable that
he might have put his pupil on some way of elevating himself in the
social scale, and of occupying a sphere where his talents would have had
an ample scope for good, and might have gained for him something more
than an ephemeral and merely local reputation. Death, however, takes no
account of such things. Their intercourse had been sufficiently long and
intimate to enable the master to lay the stamp of his character upon the
scholar. Thenceforth the youth was left to hew out his own path through
life.
George had now reached the age when it was necessary that he should
betake himself to some means of earning his own livelihood. He
accordingly selected one of the few indoor occupations that held out
that prospect, and became a weaver of woollen stuffs. This was a trade
in which it was supposed no steady man could fail for want of employment
Many young men adopted it, and there was work for all, for, with the
exception of the minister's Sunday clothes, there was not usually in the
parish an article of male attire (and very few of female) that did not
pass through the hands of the district weaver.
After a time, having by industry and economy procured for himself a
comfortable home, he began to look around him for a partner in life. The
result of this undertaking was not—so rumour went—as fortunate as might
have been expected from a man of his sagacity. Love makes sport of
wisdom. Her blessings are rarely in proportion to the sapiency of the
receiver. Indeed, if any law regulates their bestowal, it would rather
appear to be that they are in the inverse ratio. It is needless to give
instances; sacred history contains some, and the lights of modem
literature have known of more. If love’s gift to George was a Xanthippe,
this was only one of the many respects in which, to compare small men
with great, he resembled the ancient Grecian sage. Whether or not our
little Socrates was, like his great prototype, unequally yoked in
matrimony, he had too much good sense not to make the best of his
bargain, and there is no reason to believe that his mate rendered him
unhappy.
Soon after his marriage he began a practice which he continued till the
frailties of age broke in upon it. It was that of paying an annual visit
to Aberdeen in search of books and to post himself up in the literary
topics of the day. The distance was forty-seven miles by the turnpike,
and the journey he always performed on foot His stay in the town did not
usually exceed a week, but during that short time he visited all the
book shops, museums, and manufactories, and by conversation and acute
observation laid up in his retentive memory a great store of materials
for afterthought.
In one of these journeys he was overtaken by a storm, and obliged to
seek shelter in the house of a small farmer in the parish of Culter. His
conversation so engaged the family that time flew past unheeded till the
preparations for the evening meal warned him that, if he meant to reach
Aberdeen that night, there was no more time to be lost, and as the storm
had considerably abated, he prepared to depart The mother of the family,
however, interposed—
“Yell jist wait,” she said, “an* tak yer supper wi’s; for the like o* ye
was never in my hoose afore.”
“I am very much obliged by your kindness,” replied George, “but it is a
long way to Aberdeen, and I do not like to be very late in getting in.”
“If s ower lang for you to gang the nicht It’ll be vera dark, an’ the
road, they say, is nae ower chancey; sae yell jist tak a bit supper wi’s,
an’ ye can get a bed tee, sic like as we hae to spare.”
George accepted the friendly offer under the impression that he would be
allowed to pay for his victuals and accommodation. But on his proposing
to do so, the gudewife, with a touch of injured hospitality in her
manner, exclaimed,
“Pay for yer bed an’ bit supper! We micht as seen speer at you fiat we
hae tae pay for your stories. Na, na, weel awyte! we’re mair than pay’t
already. But gin ye widna tak’ it amiss, I wid like tae ken fat ye are,
an’ far ye come f’ae; for I canna mak ye out by a’thing i’ the warl’.
Ye’re surely college bred, an’ yet ye dinna look like ane o’ that kind
o’ folk.”
“No, my good woman,” replied George, “I was never at either college or
grammar school; but am just a plain weaver from the Highlands of
Deeside, where my forebears lived before me.”
“Weel, weel, weaver or no weaver, ye’re an extraordinar1 man, an’ mony
ane has a kirk that wid gie something for your talent. But ye maun
promise me, afore ye gang awa’, that as aften as ye pass this way ye’ll
stop a nicht wi’s; an’ as lang as I hae a hoose ye sanna want for
onything it can afford.”
In after years George frequently visited this family, bringing the young
members some little fair in from town, by way of sauce to his stories,
and always held in high appreciation the kindness he uniformly received.
Though the cares of a large family by and bye pressed upon him, he still
found time to pursue his old and favourite studies. He had gleaned from
various sources a large amount of legendary lore relating to Deeside,
and a better fortune attended his efforts to transmit these to posterity
than fell to the lot of his poetic collections. Many of his stories were
told and re-told from fireside to fireside till they became common
property, and now form a considerable portion of the current legends of
the district.
The skeletons of a few of the more historic have of late years been
oftener than once collected and published, though without any knowledge
on the part of the collectors that it was mainly owing to George Brown
that they had not long ago perished. This is perhaps the only form in
which they can now appear; for, after having lain bleaching in an
ungenial climate for more than half a century, it would require the
magician touch of another Scott to reinvest these bones with their
complement of humanity and bring them before us in life character.
Without any pretension to such an aim, the writer yet feels that this
sketch would be very imperfect indeed did it not contain at least one of
these tales, and that in as nearly as he can remember the very words in
which he has often heard it told, though that was only at second hand
from George Brown.*
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