Chapter II: Part 2

Around the forelands the women ply the knife in a competitive spirit with lightning speed; and while they work, the air is often filled with the strains of popular songs and hymns, interspersed with the Gaelic music of the Highland girls, sung by these toilers to while away the midnight hours. On such a night, a fishing-town has an appearance quite unique. The lurid glare in a murky sky of the many lights burning in the yards, has a very weird effect; while the roll of carts and the shrill cries of the fisher-girls, mixed with the stentorian tones of ‘the maister’ issuing his orders at dead of night, give a romantic touch to the picture. Often among the gutters are to be found most respectable, educated females, who are tempted by the high remuneration paid to engage in the work, and who, when the fishing is over, assume another character, and may be seen at the Christmas balls in some of the smaller towns as the leaders of fashion. It may be noted here, that after being gutted, packed, and salted, the herrings are allowed to lie in barrels in the curing-yards for some little time. The barrels are then filled up, and otherwise completely cured; and having received the brand of the Fishery Board as a certificate of good quality, they are despatched to Germany and Russia and; other centres where herrings form a staple article of food. The salting of herrings has hitherto been the chief method of curing; but recently, boracic acid has been introduced for the same purpose, though how far it will be adopted in practice, is still a question of the future.

One feature of the fishing which presents an unusually pretty and romantic sight may be seen on a dark night towards the end of August. At that time the boats are usually within a mile or two of the shore; and when the gloaming deepens and the nets are shot, the crews prepare to hoist the lights required to be exhibited by law to prevent accidents happening with passing vessels. As darkness sets in, light after light appears, till the sea for a stretch of many miles is transformed into what seems a gaily illuminated city; but instead of the din and bustle associated with such an occasion, not a sound is heard but the gentle ripple of the summer sea, as its wavelets frolic on the sandy beach, or thread their way round the rocks near the old tower. The sight is ever new, and one so pretty and so fascinating, that on every occasion when it is available, the whole community, including those who have been privileged to witness it for a lifetime, eagerly seek the points of vantage where they can best view the fairy-like scene spread out before them.

In mostly all the great herring-fishery ports, the harbours during winter have a most oppressive stillness, and often the trade done for a protracted period would comprise the arrival and sailing of a few colliers and a limited number of windbound ships. In spring, the scene changes, however; and by July, every available inch of water area is appropriated to the use of craft employed in the staple industry; and at times so great is the pressure, that many vessels are obliged to lie in the bay and wait their regular turn before being permitted to enter the harbour. In addition to our own ships, a great many German vessels have been hitherto engaged carrying herrings; but within the last two years, Norwegian steamers, which were employed in the Norwegian herring business before steam was introduced here, have greatly taken up the carrying-trade, to the serious exclusion of the British sailing schooners, which held the trade in their own hands for half a century, and considered it strictly their own. In consequence of the altered aspect of affairs, a strong feeling exists among the old-fashioned mariners, especially the local skippers, against what they consider an unjust usurpation of their exclusive right, and many an aged salt may be heard sighing for the ‘good old times.’ But in spite of their quarter-deck arguments, which appear as old-fashioned as their craft, steam-carrying power is fast increasing; and it is more than probable that the once smart fleet of schooners, whose employment in the herring-trade was wont to yield the year’s dividend to the owners, will soon be practically a thing of the past.

The social aspect of the fishermen engaged in the herring-fishery has undergone a remarkable change within the last quarter of a century; and the noisy, hard-drinking, indigent toilers of the deep have given place to a race of sober, industrious, religiously inclined class of men, who in many instances have amassed and have at their credit in the bank large sums of money. On the north and north-east coasts, thirty or forty years ago, fishermen as a class were reckoned amongst the hardest drinkers of the population, and one curious custom then existing, but which happily disappeared many years ago, was rather a strong proof of the not very enviable character attached to the men in those days. Before finally settling the terms of an agreement with the curer, the skipper always satisfied himself that one important clause was safe, which was to the effect that the curer was bound to supply a gallon and a half of whisky weekly for the exclusive use of the crew while prosecuting the fishing.

As years rolled on, the habits of fishermen gradually improved; and when the temperance movement spread its branches over the land, no class enlisted under its banners more readily, and no section of the community was more enthusiastic or adhered more firmly to the teetotal principles than did this section of the seafaring class. In a remarkably short time the thatched hovels gave place to neat stone and lime cottages; and the fishermen, instead of spending their evenings in the public-house, preferred either to stay at home and mend the nets or join in some temperance or religious movement which often necessitated a walk of a good many miles to the chief town in the district where these meetings were usually held. The religious tone in most of the villages on the north-east coast and Moray Firth continues marked; and many of those whose conduct a generation ago was a reproach to their village, not only are now in comfortable circumstances, but take an active interest in all local affairs, and can conduct religious meetings in a way that would do credit to those regularly trained for the ministry.

Fishermen are not naturally cosmopolitan in their nature, and take comparatively little interest in matters not directly affecting themselves; but if a trawling agitation is being promulgated, or if a sudden gale deals destruction to fishermen anywhere on the coast, the villagers evince the greatest anxiety to obtain the latest information. War or rumours of war exercise a strong influence on their minds, and the weekly newspapers are anxiously looked for, and the reports on the subject keenly discussed; but stirring questions of national importance seldom or never disturb the equilibrium of village life. A local oracle is here and there met with, and though his learning may not be profound, he has sufficient ability to represent with some degree of intelligence the opinions or wishes of his fellow-villagers at any time that a question affecting their welfare is prominently before the public. Some of these oracles are vain of their learning; and many good stories are in circulation in the fishing districts indicative of their anxiety to air their learning, especially when a big word could be utilised, whether it suited the sense or not. One good example happened in Fraserburgh not many years ago on the occasion of an accidental meeting of a minister and a leading villager. During the fishing season, the minister was visiting in a part of the town where a row of small houses were built on exactly similar lines; and finding it difficult to distinguish his parishioner’s house, asked a fisherman—at the moment remarking as to the similarity of the buildings—where the individual whom he wanted resided. The man drew himself up, and with the intention of impressing the minister with his erudition, proffered his services with the following remark: ‘Weel, sir, I’m no a bit surprised at your difficulty, for the houses on this street are most unanimous.’

As has been already indicated, fishermen do not trouble themselves with the affairs of state, and the result is that food for conversation limits itself to incidents in their daily life, which, though at times painfully exciting, is oftenest most uneventful. During the herring-fishing season, when the men often do not see one another from Monday to Saturday, part of Sunday is invariably spent in discussing the results of the previous week’s work. ‘Between sermons,’ three, four, and sometimes half-a-dozen fishermen congregate at a relative’s or an acquaintance’s lodgings, and having seated themselves, some on chairs, some on chests, and others on nets, and filled their pipes, proceed to narrate their experiences of the past few days; in the course of which, one man describes how, after sailing east-north-east, and putting Mormond Hill down, he shot his nets, and was rewarded with a good take, but got much destruction to netting in consequence of other boats having shot over his ‘fleet;’ while another recounts most minutely every night’s work from leaving till returning to the harbour, and explains that though they had been upon different grounds, they had failed to meet with any luck, although their neighbour Sandie, who was alongside of them, one night had got seventy crans. In this manner each skipper gives a little history of the week’s labours; and the company having exhausted their store of news, take their departure to their respective homes, probably not to meet again till the following Sunday.

MY FIRST PATIENT.

‘... And may I beg you to visit us in your private rather than in
your professional capacity? Since my dear wife has been failing
thus sadly, she has evinced a great dread of medical men; and were
she to guess you other than an ordinary guest, I tremble for the
consequences! The carriage will meet you at Blackburne Station at
whatever hour you name.—Yours very truly,

ARTHUR CRAWFORD.’

This is an extract from a letter that I received on the 10th of June 1870, and being but a young fellow of twenty-six, I was very much elated thereby. The great drawback to being what is called a specialist is that the generality of people—for what reason, I have never been able to discover—are afraid to employ you until you are well on in years, and consequently this Mrs Crawford for whom my services had been enlisted was my first private patient. My speciality was madness; and tiring equally of hospital-work and of idling in my own rooms, I was heartily thankful for the good luck that had befallen me. In a previous letter, Mr Crawford had given a detailed account of his wife’s symptoms; and now all arrangements were completed, and I was due at his Berkshire home on the following day.

When the train steamed into the little country station, I found a carriage and pair ready to meet me. Evidently, to judge by the general get-up of the whole thing, the Crawfords were wealthy folk; and this impression was confirmed when we reached the house, which was standing in the midst of a lovely park. In true country fashion, the hall-doors were standing open, and my host met me on the threshold with outstretched hands.

‘This is exceedingly kind of you,’ he said genially, ‘for I know you have come at your very earliest convenience.—Journey from town pleasant?—Yes? That’s right.—James, take Mr Lennox’s things to his room. Lunch in the morning-room, hey?—Come along, my dear sir; you must be half famished.’ So saying, he preceded me down a long corridor, whence I caught distant glimpses of a beautiful garden at the back of the house, and into a snug little room where luncheon was laid. While I discussed a cold chicken, Mr Crawford went on chatting; and ere I went to my room for a wash and brush up before presenting myself to his wife, we were excellent friends. I do not think I ever met a man who so much charmed me at first sight; nay, he more than charmed, he captivated me. He was about thirty, and exceedingly handsome, with fair curly hair, and bright blue eyes. He had a bronzed complexion, and a hearty laugh, and was altogether a most attractive specimen of a young Englishman. When I had finished luncheon, his manner changed abruptly as he began speaking of his young wife.

‘I did not like to enter upon the subject before you were rested,’ he began courteously; ‘but I am intensely anxious you should see her. For some months past she has been suffering from intense melancholia, and lately she has taken a deep distrust of those around her, more particularly of me.’ He stopped abruptly and bit his lip. ‘Doctor, I simply worship her,’ he went on passionately. ‘When I married her five years ago, she was the blithest, merriest girl in all the shire; and now, to see her like this—why, it breaks my heart!’ and he dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

There was an awkward pause, for in those days I was too inexperienced to be much of a hand at consolation, and then I stepped nearer to him and laid my hand upon his shoulder. ‘Come, come,’ I said cheerily, ‘there is no need to despair like this. We must hope for the best. How does she show her distrust of you?’

He raised his head to answer me. ‘By keeping the boy from me, for one thing. She will hardly let me touch him.’

‘The boy? A son of yours?’

‘Our only child,’ he answered—‘a dear little fellow of nearly four; and she betrays a terrible fear whenever I have him with me.’

‘Does she eat well?’

‘Hardly at all.’

‘Sleep at night?’

He shook his head; and then followed a string of various professional questions. Our conversation at an end, I requested to be shown to my room, promising to be in the drawing-room for five o’clock tea, when I should be introduced to Mrs Crawford.

‘As _Mr_ Lennox, if you please,’ suggested her husband as we crossed the hall. ‘You remember that I asked you to drop the doctor, and seem an ordinary visitor?’

Of course I agreed; and then he told me he had spoken to her of me as an old college friend; and finally he left me to myself.

When I descended to the drawing-room, I found both Crawford and his wife waiting for me. He was standing by the open window playing with the climbing roses that were nodding by its sill: he was talking merrily as I entered, and looked the personification of life and good spirits. A girl was standing by the mantel-shelf with her back towards me, and I had barely time to admire the slight figure and graceful pose, before Crawford’s voice rang out in hearty cordiality.

‘Ah! there you are at last! Let me introduce you to my wife.—Beatrice, this is Mr John Lennox.’

She had half turned when he began speaking; but as he said my name, she gave a sudden gasp and confronted me with large startled eyes. I have seen the eyes of a snared bird and those of a hunted stag, but I have never seen such a look of piteous fear as dwelt in hers then. For one moment she seemed half mad with terror; but the next it fled as quickly as it came, and she held out her hand in greeting. As she did so, an ugly scar on the smooth white wrist caught my eye. It looked to me like an unskilful but intentional cut from a knife, and while we were exchanging commonplaces as to my journey, &c., I was wondering as to whether she had ever attempted her own life. She was in the first flush of her womanhood; and her glorious blue eyes and coil of auburn hair would alone have sufficed to stamp her as a beautiful woman, had it not been that the curious expression of her face outweighed every other fascination. She gave me the impression of being literally consumed by a terrible dread, to the nature of which I of course as yet held no clue; and with this dread, an equally strong desire to suppress all outward indication of it. Add to this, the fact that her face was entirely colourless, and that the hand she had given me, in spite of the June sunshine, was as cold as ice, and it will be seen that my first case promised to be full of interest.

She poured out the tea silently, while her husband and I went on chatting, and she did not speak again until he proposed to ring the nursery bell.

‘We have not seen Bertie all day,’ he added, ‘and I know you would like to show him off to Lennox.’

‘He is having his tea,’ she rejoined quickly. ‘Show him off in the morning, Arthur; I don’t think we want him now.’

‘O fie! There is an unkind mamma! I wonder what Bertie would say to you? He can finish his tea here, dear. I’ll fetch him.’

‘No, no; I’ll go.’ She ran out of the room as she spoke; and Crawford turned to me with a weary-looking smile.

‘You see, Lennox? I generally give way; but I am afraid of it growing upon her, if I never see the child. He is such a splendid fellow!’ As he spoke, his wife returned with the boy in her arms.

‘I met him in the hall,’ she explained; ‘he was just coming in from his walk.—No, Arthur, don’t take him: he is not at all heavy.’ This last to her husband, who had advanced with outstretched hands. ‘Look here, Bertie, darling. Who likes cake?’ She seated herself on a low chair, still keeping a jealous arm around the child, and went on talking, this time to me. ‘Arthur and I quarrel over this small boy.’ She laughed a little, but it sounded very mirthless. ‘The last cause of dissension is his health. I think he is growing delicate and wants change, and papa doesn’t agree. Does he, my beauty?’

The boy laughed as she held him yet more closely to her; and looking at his rosy cheeks and bright eyes, it seemed to me that there could not be a healthier youngster.

‘I am afraid I must take papa’s side,’ I said. ‘You must not alarm yourself unnecessarily, dear Mrs Crawford, for I think’—— I stopped abruptly, alarmed by the expression on her face. I was new at my work, be it remembered; but I think that older men than I would have been frightened. Bertie had rebelled against the detaining arm; and sliding on to the floor, had run to his father and climbed into his arms.

A fine game of romps now ensued, and the mother sat and watched them. Sitting there facing her, I, too, was watching. In my student days, I had kept a tame lizard, and by whistling to it, had been able to direct its movements at will, and now I was reminded of my whilom pet by watching Beatrice Crawford’s eyes. Every motion of her husband’s, as he ran round the room tossing the laughing boy in his arms, appeared to hold a fascination for her, and her gaze never left him but once. That once was when she walked swiftly to a further table and possessed herself of a paper-knife, which she handed to me, commenting on its curious make. It was of steel and sharply pointed; and I handed it back again with the remark, that it would make a nasty weapon if needed. She took it without glancing at me again; but her husband had caught her words, and now came up to us breathless and laughing, with Bertie clinging round his neck.

‘Don’t hold that thing, my darling,’ he said tenderly. ‘I hate to see such an ugly knife in your dear little hands.’

‘Give it to Bertie, mamma,’ cried the child, stretching dimpled hands for the coveted treasure; and his father, with an injunction to be careful, was taking it from her to give to him, when, with a muffled cry, she snatched the knife back and dashed it through the open window into the garden beyond.

‘You shan’t have it!—you shan’t have it!’ she cried excitedly, while a bright red spot burned on either cheek. ‘You would’—— With marvellous self-control, she stopped dead short; and after an almost imperceptible pause, she added in her usual quiet tones: ‘Pray, forgive me, Arthur; I am so afraid of Bertie hurting himself.—Go up to the nursery, dear. Mamma will come to you.’

Awe-struck at her late passion, the child went gently out of the room, and his mother following him, I was left alone with Crawford. It went to my heart to see the pained, drawn look on his face; but the scene had at all events put one thing beyond a doubt: Mrs Crawford was not merely failing in brain-power—she was mad.

A couple of days went by, and I became fairly puzzled. All the ordinary verbal tests when applied to my patient proved complete failures. Her memory was excellent, and indeed in this respect she was far better than her husband, who was constantly forgetting things. As to her judgment, it struck me as above the average, for she was a widely-read woman, and we had a stiff argument one night as to the merits of our favourite authors. She managed her own housekeeping, and capitally she did it too; and, in fact—not to exhaust the reader’s patience by entering into details—the only visible outcome of her mental aberration was this extreme terror in which she lived, and for which I could find no reason. (I may remark parenthetically that the mad undoubtedly have rules of their own by which they are influenced. Experience thus teaching me that Mrs Crawford had some reason for this, to us, inexplicable dread—even though it might be but a fear of her own shadow—it became my business to solve this reason.) What baffled me most was the fact that while it was Crawford himself who primarily excited this terror, she was undeniably fond of him. Indeed, the word ‘fond’ is hardly suitable, for she simply adored him. I never heard him express the slightest wish as to the household arrangements but it was instantly fulfilled; while every whim—and he was the most whimsical of men—was implicitly obeyed. In fact, at the end of a week I was precisely in the same state as when I first entered the house. But that my _amour propre_ was piqued, and I felt angry at my non-success, I should have been paying a very enjoyable visit. Arthur Crawford made a capital host; and although, as I have already said, he was a very whimsical man, and was subject to unaccountable fits of depression, he and I got on excellently together.

At the end of the week, something happened which had the double effect of lowering me several inches in my own estimation, and of placing matters in a totally different light. It was an exceedingly hot night; and after we had all gone to bed, I was tempted to leave my room, and seating myself by the open window in the corridor, to indulge in an extra cigar. The fact that it was a fine moonlight night, and that while the corridor window boasted a lovely view, that of my own room looked into the stables, amply justified my choice of a seat. I had been there for perhaps an hour, when I heard the Crawfords talking in their room, which was on a level with my own. The tones were excited and eager; and fearing that Mrs Crawford might be lashing herself into a fury, and that her husband might be ignorantly increasing it, I stole down to their door and stood listening.

‘Arthur, dear, give it to me. You don’t want it to-night. Why not wait until the morning?’

These were the first words that I caught spoken in Mrs Crawford’s usually gentle tones.

‘Give it to you?—No; not I! I know a trick worth two of that. Ah, you think I don’t know that you and that confounded mealy-mouthed doctor are in league against me.’

Crawford’s voice, shrill and mocking, but undoubtedly his. Good heavens! was the man drunk? There was a moment’s pause, and then he began again, this time more gently.

‘Come, come, Beatrice. Drop this stupid joking. I only want to have a little cut at Bertie, just a little cut; and look! the knife is so bright and sharp, it cannot hurt him much.’

The wall seemed to reel around me as I leaned against it for support. In a flash of revelation that nearly blinded me, as I realised the full horror of the situation, I understood for the first time how matters actually stood. Crawford himself was the madman, and the devoted wife, whom I had been taught to look upon as insane, had known the truth all this time; and knowing it, for some inscrutable woman’s reason, had shielded him, perhaps at the cost of her very life. In a moment the meaning of his many whims, his loss of memory, his fits of depression, were made clear to me; and as I thought of the martyrdom through which his girl-wife had passed, I cursed myself for the readiness with which I had been duped.

While these thoughts were rushing through my brain, I had noiselessly opened the outer door, and now stood in the dressing-room, peering into the bedroom beyond. The door between the two was standing open; but a heavy curtain hung in the aperture, and by making a little slit in it by means of my penknife, I was enabled to command a view of the interior. At the farther end of the apartment lay Bertie asleep in his cot. Standing before him, clad in a long white wrapper, and with her auburn hair flowing over her shoulders, was the young mother herself; while at some paces from her stood Crawford, still in evening dress, and balancing in his fingers a long glittering dagger, that I recognised as one that usually hung in the library below. By this time he had dropped his angry tones, and was speaking in his accustomed pleasant fashion. ‘You know, dear,’ he was saying, ‘it really is necessary that we both drink some. Half a glassful of young and innocent blood, and we both shall keep young and happy for ever.’

‘Won’t my blood do?’ asked the girl desperately. She stretched her bare arms towards him and forced a smile to her poor quivering lips. ‘You are much fonder of me, aren’t you, dear? I shall do much better.’

He laughed softly. ‘No, no, my darling; not you. I wouldn’t hurt you for all the gold of all the Indies.’ He stopped suddenly, as if struck by his own words. ‘Gold?’ he repeated. ‘Ah! yes, of course, I must have gold. Where did I put it now?’

He retreated a few steps, looking uneasily from side to side.

‘Perhaps you left it in the library.—Ring for James. Or go to Mr Lennox, Arthur; he will help you to find it.’

He laughed again—a low monotonous laugh, to which my hospital-work had but too well accustomed me, and then he moved nearer her, still balancing the dagger in his long nervous fingers. That terrible knife! If he had only put it down for a moment, I could have rushed in and secured it before turning to him; but as matters were, cruel experience taught me that the instant he caught sight of me, he would rush to the child, to carry his dreadful purpose into effect, and that the mother in all probability would fall the victim. On the other hand, I dared not quit my post to summon assistance, and so leave Beatrice entirely at his mercy. I glanced round the dressing-room, and the window-cord caught my eye. It was new and strong. I cut it as high as I could reach, and crept back to my hole at the curtain. Crawford was growing rapidly angry.

‘Give me that boy!’ he cried roughly. ‘Get out of the way, Beatrice, and let me have him;’ and he caught her by the arm and dragged her from the cot.

‘Arthur, Arthur! husband, sweetheart!’ She clasped both arms around his neck, and raised imploring eyes to his; but the sight of the thin white face only moved him to greater wrath.

‘It is all your fault I have not made you strong long ago,’ he exclaimed irritably. ‘You never laugh now, and you can’t sing, and you won’t dance.’

‘Dance? O yes, I can. Look, Arthur!’ She drew rapidly back towards the cot, speaking in her ordinary quiet voice. ‘You shall do what you like with Bertie; I was only joking. Only we must have our dance first, you know.’

With a sudden movement, she stooped and lifted the sleeping child from the bed, talking all the time in an arch merry voice, that still retained its old power over the poor madman. He nodded approvingly as she began rocking to and fro with the boy in her arms, and he moved a chair or two, to give her more space.

‘Dance, Beatrice!’ and he began whistling a then fashionable valse, beating time to the air with the dagger, of which he never relinquished his hold.

‘Very well,’ she responded cheerily. ‘Stand by the mantel-piece and give us plenty of room. Now, then, my baby boy; one, two, and off we go.’

My life has shown me instances of self-devotion in plenty; I have seen proofs of ready wit, and more of indomitable pluck; but I have never seen them so marvellously combined as on that terrible June night. Instinct taught me what she meant to do. She had persuaded her husband to stand at the end of the room farthest from the curtain that hid her one means of escape, and now she intended to hazard her only chance, dash through it, lock the door on the other side, and then go for help. Backwards and forwards, round and round, she circled, a weird enough figure in her white draperies. The little white feet were bare, and it taxed her utmost strength to hold the heavy boy in her arms; but with a sublime heroism of which I should never have believed her capable, she never once paused for breath. A miracle alone kept the child asleep; but when I saw the poor mother’s lips move dumbly between the snatches of the gay valse she was humming, I felt that she was praying God he might not waken. Nearer and nearer the curtain she came; but, to my horror, I perceived that Crawford was growing uneasy and advancing slowly in the rear.

‘Mrs Crawford! Quick!’

There was not a minute to be lost. I tore the curtain aside, and she rushed towards me; but ere I could fasten the heavy door, her husband was upon us. With a yell of baffled rage, he was tearing after her through the open doorway, and in another moment would have reached her with uplifted knife, when I tripped him up, and he fell headlong to the floor. He was stunned by his fall; and while I fastened his hands and feet by means of the cut window-cord, his wife went back to the inner room and rang loudly for assistance.

Ere he came to himself, Arthur Crawford was safely secured in my own room. Leaving him there under charge of the men-servants, I went back to seek Mrs Crawford. She was lying on the bedroom floor with her nervous fingers still tightly interlaced, and by her side sat her little son, warm and rosy from his broken sleep. He was kissing the paling lips as I came hastily into the room, and now held up a warning finger as I knelt beside them.

‘Poor mamma is fast asleep,’ he whispered. ‘And she is so cold!’

She was not dead. The long and frightful mental strain through which she had passed brought on brain-fever, and for some days we despaired of her life; but she came through it bravely; and ere the summer waned, I had the satisfaction of installing both mother and son in a seaside cottage, far enough away from her Berkshire home.

Crawford, poor fellow, only lived a few months, for a dangerous fall in the asylum grounds put a merciful termination to his confinement. During those few months, I visited him occasionally, and he always spoke most tenderly of his wife, whom he imagined to be dead.

When he died, I went to break the news to his young widow; and while staying in her pretty Devonshire cottage, I solved much that had puzzled me. Her terror at my first introduction to her had been occasioned by the fact that she had at once recognised me as Lennox the mad doctor. I had been pointed out to her in the park the season before. She dreaded Arthur’s incipient madness being known to any one; for she had a blind terror of a lunatic asylum in connection with her idolised husband, and hoped that a quiet country life, free from trouble and contradiction, might in time restore him. But had he never broken out before? I asked, for it seemed to me incomprehensible that so slight a frame should be capable of such courage. Once, she said, only once, and then he had been bent on killing himself. In struggling with him for the possession of the knife, he had accidentally cut her wrist, and so occasioned the ugly scar that disfigured it. As for Bertie’s presence on that fatal night, she told me he had always been accustomed to sleep in their room; and as I had refused to second her theory that the child wanted change of air, and so aid in sending him out of the house, she could devise no other means of getting rid of him.

And then I took my leave; and I have never seen Mrs Crawford from that day to this; but still, in spite of a certain pair of sweet brown eyes which make the sunshine of my home, I am forced to admit that there is no woman on earth for whom I have such a boundless admiration as for that unfortunate lady of whom I at one time thought as my First Patient.

FYVIE CASTLE.

Great are the vicissitudes of landed property in these modern times. Estates of more than local name are constantly being placed in the market, and even manors and castles of national interest are occasionally brought to the auctioneer’s hammer. Old families are dying out or becoming embarrassed, and many of ‘the stately homes of England’—often associated with legendary lore and the history of centuries—have to be handed over to the highest bidder. We are not here concerned with the political or economical aspect of this transference of landed property; but even the most utilitarian will admit that there is something melancholy in seeing a fine old historic mansion advertised for sale, or a family divorced from an estate with which it may have been connected for generations. On the other hand, nothing, we should fancy, would be more tempting to the new class of rich men desirous of acquiring landed possessions than the chance of securing some old family seat, of quaint architectural design, and crowded with memories of the past. A splendid chance of this kind was offered some time ago in the proposed sale of Fyvie Castle, in Aberdeenshire, along with the adjoining estate; but no sale was effected. This castle may be said to be complete in its way. It possesses dungeons, a ‘murder-hole,’ and a secret, inaccessible chamber, with, of course, a dreadful threat hanging over the head of him who first enters it; a ‘Green Lady’ is said to occasionally walk up and down its main staircase; a ‘dripping stone’ is one of its curiosities; a family history is associated with each of its four towers; it figures prominently in a well-known local ballad; and Thomas the Rhymer even delivered himself of a prophecy concerning it. Yet, withal, it is a comfortable and commodious mansion, pleasantly situated, with park, lake, river, and shootings attached. What more could one wish for in a castle?

The traveller from Aberdeen to Banff by railway may catch a glimpse of Fyvie Castle to his right when he has accomplished about three-fourths of his journey. He will only see its turret-tops, however, for the castle stands in a well-wooded hollow—familiarly known in the Aberdeenshire dialect as ‘the howe o’ Fyvie’—encircled by low, undulating hills and stretches of highly cultivated land. The castle occupies two sides of a square, and is a high and narrow structure of the old Scotch baronial type, which would be designated plain were it not for its numerous turrets and dormer windows, surmounted with carved canopies and statuary. It has something of the appearance of a French chateau, and it has indeed been cited by John Hill Burton in his _Scot Abroad_ as one of the finest specimens of how the chateau architecture of France was superimposed upon the original grim square block of a Scotch baronial mansion. The chief front is to the south, and is formed by the union of three tall towers, built by and called after three successive families who, at one time or other, have been owners of Fyvie. Of these three towers, the most noticeable is the central one, the Seton Tower, named after a member of the Seton family, to whose French upbringing and architectural tastes the general design of the building is attributed. It is curiously recessed, two semi-round twin towers being united by an arch above the fourth story. In the recess thus formed, which is rendered striking by its great height and width, is the former grand entrance, leading into a low, vaulted passage, the doorway being defended by a ponderous iron grating bolted into the massive walls. The west side, terminating in a corresponding tower at the north end, is of more modern construction, but is in perfect harmony with the front. The main architectural feature of the castle, however, is, as already hinted, its many bartisan turrets and dormer windows and high-pitched gables, the turrets being surmounted with stone figures, and the dormer windows with carved canopies. A good view of this portion of the structure is given in Billings’s _Baronial and Ecclesiastical Antiquities of Scotland_, the castle being there described (again by Hill Burton, who furnished the letterpress to Billings’s engravings) as ‘one of the noblest and most beautiful specimens of the rich architecture which the Scottish barons of the days of King James VI. obtained from France. Its three princely towers, with their luxuriant coronet of coned turrets, sharp gables, tall roofs and chimneys, canopied dormer windows, and rude statuary, present a sky outline at once graceful, rich, and massive, and in these qualities exceeding even the far-famed Glammis.’ The interior of the building is in keeping with the exterior, and abounds in narrow passages, winding staircases, and small rooms; though there are apartments the size and elegance of which could hardly be predicated from a mere survey of the outside of the castle. For such an old place, the light and airiness of the rooms are something remarkable; while the views across the park and policies that are obtained from the windows are charming and charmingly diversified. But the main attraction is a grand stone staircase of unique design, said to be without an equal, or even a rival, in Scotland. It is best described as ‘revolving in corkscrew fashion round a massive central pillar, the skill of the architect being chiefly shown in the turns and windings of the ribbed and vaulted roof, with its arches springing occasionally out of carved capitals in the walls.’ The steps are of great breadth, and are so gently graduated, that it is easy to accept a tradition to the effect that the horse of one of the lairds used to ascend them.

The stone figures on the tops of the turrets, wrought in the red sandstone that lends colour to the canopies and other ornamentations, are somewhat diminutive, and, with one exception, have lost their personality, if they ever had any. This exceptional figure is said to represent Andrew Lammie, ‘the trumpeter of Fyvie,’ immortalised in a well-known Aberdeenshire ballad, _Mill o’ Tifty’s Annie_. The miller’s daughter fell in love with the trumpeter, and was done to death by her family in consequence, the tragedy being completed by the pining away of the trumpeter. We quote the concluding verses of this truly pathetic ballad:

‘Fyvie lands lie braid and wide,
And oh, but they be bonny!
But I wadna gie my ain true-love,
For a’ the lands in Fyvie!

‘But mak my bed, and lay me down,
And turn my face to Fyvie,
That I may see, before I die,
My bonny Andrew Lammie!’

They made her bed, and laid her down,
And turned her face to Fyvie;
She gave a groan, and died or morn—
She ne’er saw Andrew Lammie.

The laird o’ Fyvie he went hame,
And he was sad and sorry;
Says, ‘The bonniest lass o’ the country-side
Has died for Andrew Lammie.’

Oh, Andrew’s gane to the house-top
O’ the bonny house o’ Fyvie;
He’s blawn his horn baith loud and shrill
O’er the lowland leas o’ Fyvie.

‘Mony a time hae I walked a’ night,
And never yet was weary;
But now I may walk wae my lane,
For I’ll never see my dearie.

‘Love pines away, love dwines away,
Love—love decays the body;
For the love o’ thee, now I maun dee;
I come, my bonny Annie!’

Mill of Tifty is still ‘to the fore,’ and the effigy of the trumpeter points his trumpet in its direction; and the ballad seems to have some truth in it, for the tombstone of the unfortunate Annie—her real name was Agnes Smith—was till recently in Fyvie kirkyard, being now replaced by a handsome monument; and documents show that her father was owner of the mill in 1672.

The castle as it now stands—there is supposed to have been an older castle or keep—is believed to date from about 1397, the oldest tower extant having been built by Sir Henry Preston—of the family of Preston of Craigmillar—who fought at Otterburn, and who acquired the estate from Sir James de Lindsay, ‘Dominus de Crawfurd et Buchan.’ From the Prestons, the estate passed by marriage into a family called Meldrum; but the family most associated with the castle is the family named after it. In 1596, Fyvie was purchased from the Meldrums by Alexander Seton, third son of George, sixth Lord Seton, and brother of the first Earl of Winton. This Alexander Seton was first created Lord Fyvie, and then Earl of Dunfermline—the former title being apparently used by the family in the north. He was a lawyer-statesman of great ability and influence, and a favourite councillor of James I.’s. He held a number of state and judicial offices, being successively President of the Court of Session and Lord Chancellor of Scotland; and he was the King’s Commissioner to the Scotch parliament of 1612, which rescinded the Act of 1592 establishing the Presbyterian system of church government. The second Lord Fyvie took a prominent part, under Montrose, in the operations against the Covenanters, and afterwards lived abroad with Charles II., and shared in the honours distributed at the restoration of the Merry Monarch. The fourth and last peer fought at Killiecrankie on the royalist side, was outlawed, and died at St Germain. The estate, which had been forfeited to the Crown, was sold in 1726 to William, second Earl of Aberdeen, who settled it on his eldest son by his third wife, Lady Anne Gordon, sister of Lord Lewis Gordon—the ‘Lewie Gordon’ of the Jacobite ballad; and it has since descended through members of junior branches of the Gordon (Aberdeen) family. Its present proprietor is Sir Maurice Duff-Gordon, son of Lady Duff-Gordon, whose pleasant _Letters from Egypt_ have not yet escaped memory.

It will thus be seen that a considerable historic interest attaches to the castle that was so recently in the market. The domain of Fyvie, indeed, is said to have been a royal chase at one time; and some would even have it that in the reign of Robert the Bruce it was a royal residence, and was visited in 1296 by Edward I. on his progress through the north of Scotland. There is a ‘Queen Mary Room’ in the castle, and some good specimens of the furniture of Mary’s period, though it is doubtful if Mary herself ever occupied the room. The great Marquis of Montrose, who certainly encamped once in the neighbourhood of the castle, is reported to have spent a night under its roof; and a century later, the Duke of Cumberland marched through the policies of Fyvie on his way to Culloden.

Turning from the historical to the legendary, we have a prophecy of Thomas the Rhymer’s respecting Fyvie:

Fyvns riggs and towers,
Hapless shall your mesdames be,
When ye shall hae within your methes,
Frae harryit kirk’s land, stanes three—
Ane in Preston’s tower;
Ane in my lady’s bower;
And ane below the water-yett,
And it ye shall never get.

Two of these stones have been found in their respective places, but the third one remains true to the seer’s prediction. One of the weird stones is carefully kept, and is known as the ‘dripping stone,’ as at times it exudes a large quantity of moisture, often sufficient to fill a large basin with water. Singular to say, nothing is known of a ‘water-yett,’ or of there having been one; while the alleged raid on Church property is equally a mystery; and though the hapless fate of the ladies of Fyvie is not specified, it is a curious circumstance that no heir has been born in Fyvie Castle for several generations. But whatever the prophecy may portend, it completes the charm of a castle which possesses much to delight both the lover of the picturesque and the worshipper of the past.

BIRD NOTES.

Six poplar trees, in golden green,
Stand up the sweet May snow between—
The snow of plum and pear tree bloom—
And I, looking down from my little room,
Call to the bird on the bough: ‘What cheer?’
And he pipes for answer: ‘The spring is here.’

A month goes by with its sun and rain,
And a rosebud taps at my window pane;
I see in the garden down below
The tall white lilies a stately row;
The birds are pecking the cherries red:
‘Summer is sweet,’ the starlings said.

Again I look from my casement down;
The leaves are changing to red and brown;
And overhead, through a sky of gray,
The swallows are flying far away.
‘Whither away, sweet birds?’ I cry.
‘Autumn is come,’ they make reply.

Keenly, coldly, the north winds blow;
Silently falls the pure white snow;
Of birds and blossoms am I bereft—
Brave bright robin alone is left,
And he taps and chirps at my window pane:
‘Take heart; the spring will return again.’

FLORENCE TYLEE.

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