Part 7 (2/2)
He was a tall, stalwart fellow; black-bearded, not handsome, but with a tremendously Irish face, eyes of fire, nose of peremptory interrogation.
Flouris.h.i.+ng a wretched grammar in one hand, he proceeded rapidly to demonstrate its ineptness, and sternly to demand my explanation. As my weak-kneedness grew more painfully evident--
So scented the grim feature, and upturned His nostril wide into the murky air, Sagacious of his quarry--
he almost shouted with exultation. All the Manx scholars had completely failed--here was another. ”Glory be to G.o.d! I'll smite him hip and thigh.” He was a splendid Irishman, and, of course, kind and generous.
He didn't spare me, _destructed_ me utterly; but speedily constructed me upon new lines, and told me a lot about Celtic difficulties and how to overcome them. He spoke Irish like a bird, and, after about three-quarters of an hour, he rushed forth to catch the train, hairy, immense, with some wild wirrasthru of farewell. Imagine a very learned and linguistic Mulligan of Ballymulligan!...
O Wallaston, the delight of this leisure! I read, I write, I play. Good gracious! I shouldn't wonder if my music came to something yet. I have actually gone back to singing, a vice of my youth. Don't mention it at Clifton! I always think the sea the great challenger and promoter of song. Even the mountain is not the same thing. There may always be some d----d fool or another behind a rock. But the sea is open, and you can tell when you are alone, and the dear old chap is so confidential: I will trust him with my secret.
How about Devon! was it good? Did you all bathe and ”rux” yourselves well about in the brine? I have not done much in that way: the storms have been so furious--unkind of them, eh? Well, I fancy it is like the boisterous welcome of some great dog--at least I take it in that sense.
And the old boy is so strong, and he doesn't know, he thinks I am what I used to be. But I'm not: and every now and then he remembers that, and creeps to my feet so fawningly....
[Sidenote: _T.E. Brown_]
At a great prayer-meeting requests were being made that divers souls, supposed to be in evil case, should be interceded for. One arose and asked the prayers of the meeting for a little town on the east coast of Scotland, which was ”wholly given to idolatry.” Such was the expression.
A little city, with many schools, also the seat of a University. Having thus mysteriously indicated the place, the excellent individual plainly felt that no mortal could possibly guess what place he meant; and, putting his hand over his mouth, he said to his friends on the platform, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper distinctly heard over the entire hall, ”St.
Andrews!” Isn't that consummate? Isn't it Scotland?...
[Sidenote: _T.E. Brown_]
Walters did an extremely kind thing the other day. Two old things going about with an _entertainment_ (!) of Recitations (really old, for I heard them ”at it” thirty-five years ago), took a letter with them from me to Walters. It was the merest chance, I thought, but I suggested that just possibly Walters might give them an evening at the College.
By Jove! sir, he did give them an evening, and gave them a substantial fee, and filled their poor trembling cup of Auld lang syne with joy and thanksgiving, and dismissed them with honour, almost reeling with the intoxication of so unwonted a success, the boys giving them a mighty three-times-three which shook the welkin, and stirred amazingly the pulsation of two hearts that have long desisted from the exercise of hope....
[Sidenote: _T.E. Brown_]
I heard one or two good stories at Braddan when I preached there (last Sunday). One was of a child at the Sunday-school. ”What ought you to do on Sunday?” ”Go to church.” ”What ought you to do next?” ”Go to chapel.”
Was it not precisely the story for a vicar to tell? You feel the atmosphere--what?...
[Sidenote: _T.E. Brown_]
We sat down in some cottages. Some of the people were magnificent, throwing themselves upon you with such vigour of accent, such warmth and fun, and endless receptivity, bright, well pulled together, sonorous, that I nearly staggered under it--not chaff--good heavens! no--but would have been chaff, only it wasn't, for they can't chaff.
Kitty Kermode, _alias_ Kinvig, was the best. She said a very sweet and profound thing (but I can't phrase it as I ought) about the value of friends.h.i.+p, as compared with that of love. A little happy creature of some seventeen giggled in a dark corner, but I let her giggle; the old woman pierced me through and through. Oh _fortunati_--Oh indeed! And these dear things seemed to know that their lot was a happy one. _Quod faustum!_ Unutterably precious to me is the woman, the native of the hills, almost my own age, or a little younger, whose spirit is set upon the finest springs, and her sympathies have an almost masculine depth, and a length of reflection that wins your confidence and stays your sinking heart.
The lady can't do it. This cla.s.s, of what I suppose you would call peasant women (I won't have the word), seems made for the purpose of rectifying everything, and redressing the balance, inspiring us with that awe which the immediate presence of absolute womanhood creates in us. The plain, practical woman, with the outspoken throat and the eternal eyes. Oh, mince me, madam, mince me your pretty mincings!
Deliberate your dainty reticences! Balbutient loveliness, avaunt! Here is a woman that talks like a bugle, and, in everything, sees G.o.d.
[Sidenote: _T.E. Brown_]
... The wreck of the _Drummond Castle_ is much in my mind. What lovely creatures those French are! The women and children, carrying their poor drowned sisters! that little baby in its coffin decked with roses! Don't you yearn towards those dear souls? What are Agincourt and Waterloo in the presence of such sweetness? Well, I love them anyway, and shall brood over them and pray for them while I live....
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