Rab and His Friends

Rab and His Friends

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Title: Rab and His Friends
Author: John Brown, M. D.
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RAB AND HIS FRIENDS
BY JOHN BROWN, M.D.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY HERMANN SIMON AND EDMUND
H. GARRETT.
PHILADELPHIA: 1890.

PREFACE.
Four years ago, my uncle, the Rev. Dr. Smith of Biggar, asked me to
give a lecture in my native village, the shrewd little capital of the Upper
Ward. I never lectured before; I have no turn for it; but Avunculus was
urgent, and I had an odd sort of desire to say something to these
strong-brained, primitive people of my youth, who were boys and girls
when I left them. I could think of nothing to give them. At last I said to
myself, "I'll tell them Ailie's story." I had often told it to myself; indeed,
it came on me at intervals almost painfully, as if demanding to be told,
as if I heard Rab whining at the door to get in or out,--
"Whispering how meek and gentle he could be,"--
or as if James was entreating me on his death-bed to tell all the world
what his Ailie was. But it was easier said than done. I tried it over and
over, in vain. At last, after a happy dinner at Hanley--why are the
dinners always happy at Hanley?--and a drive home alone through
"The gleam, the shadow, and the peace supreme"
of a midsummer night, I sat down about twelve and rose at four, having
finished it. I slunk off to bed, satisfied and cold. I don't think I made
almost any changes in it. I read it to the Biggar folk in the school-house,
very frightened, and felt I was reading it ill, and their honest faces
intimated as much in their affectionate puzzled looks. I gave it on my
return home to some friends, who liked the story; and the first idea was

to print it, as now, with illustrations, on the principle of Rogers's joke,
"that it would be dished except for the plates."
But I got afraid of the public, and paused. Meanwhile, some good
friend said Rab might be thrown in among the other idle hours, and so
he was; and it is a great pleasure to me to think how many new friends
he got.
I was at Biggar the other day, and some of the good folks told me, with
a grave smile peculiar to that region, that when Rab came to them in
print he was so good that they wouldn't believe he was the same Rab I
had delivered in the school-room,--a testimony to my vocal powers of
impressing the multitude somewhat conclusive.
I need not add that this little story is, in all essentials, true, though, if I
were Shakespeare, it might be curious to point out where Phantasy tried
her hand, sometimes where least suspected.
It has been objected to it as a work of art that there is too much pain;
and many have said to me, with some bitterness, "Why did you make
me suffer so?" But I think of my father's answer when I told him this:
"And why shouldn't they suffer? SHE suffered; it will do them good;
for pity, genuine pity, is, as old Aristotle says, 'of power to purge the
mind.'" And though in all works of art there should be a plus of
delectation, the ultimate overcoming of evil and sorrow by good and
joy,--the end of all art being pleasure,--whatsoever things are lovely
first, and things