Up in Ardmuirland | Page 5

married. They are most proud of their youngest, Margaret, who is a lay
sister in a town convent. Though her husband is reckoned a traveler,
Bell can lay no claim to the title; she probably never moved farther
than ten miles away from the family hearthstone until the day she left
her father's house by the Burn of Breakachy to marry Willy Paterson,
and certainly has never traveled much since that time.
Most of the houses of Ardmuirland are constructed on exactly the same

plan. There are two principal rooms--"but" and "ben," as they are
commonly designated. (It is unnecessary here to dive into etymology;
but it may be noticed in passing that but signifies "without" and ben
"within.") To "gae ben" is to pass into the inner room, which at one
time opened out of the ordinary living apartment or kitchen, but is now
usually separated from it by a little entrance lobby. Besides these two
chief rooms, the initiated will be able to point out sundry little hidden
closets and cupboards, fitted up as sleeping apartments, and reminding
one of the contrivances on board ship. The two rooms each contain a
more demonstrative bed, as a rule: but in some cases the bed is shut up
with panelled doors like a cupboard.
All that I learned from Bell about the Ardmuirland of bygone days was
gathered from her lips at intervals, and in the course of many repeated
visits; for it would have been fatal to my purpose had I allowed her to
imagine that I intended to make public use of her communications.
Though I have retained the substance, I have often altered the form; for
it would be useless to expect the reader to translate (if it were even
possible to do so without the help of a glossary) Bell's broad Scots
dialect. Yet the temptation has been too great to be resisted from time
to time to quote her exact words--so quaint her diction and, to me at
least, so attractive withal.
A description of the original chapel of the district will serve as a fitting
introduction to these memoirs. According to Bell, it must have been
simple even to destitution. No smoothly hewn stones, no carved
windows, no decoration of any kind distinguished it from the houses of
the people. It was a small, low building of rough stone, unplastered,
even inside, and roofed by a heather thatch. There was a single door in
the side wall. The roof within was open to the rude, unvarnished beams
which upheld the thatch. The floor was of beaten clay, and there were
rough benches for the people to sit upon during the sermon, but no
contrivance for kneeling upon.
"Some o' the fowk had boards to kneel on, ye ken," Bell explained, "but
the maist o' them prayed kneelin' on the flure."
The altar was a plain, deal kitchen table, devoid of all ornament in the

shape of draperies except the necessary linen coverings. Underneath it
was a box, within which the vestments were stowed away; for there
was no semblance of sacristy, and the priest's house was some yards
distant. At the opposite end from the altar was a raised dais for the
accommodation of the singers, of whom Bell herself was one. She
could not recall what they were accustomed to sing as a rule.
"I mind we wad sing the Dies Irae, whiles," was all the information she
could give on that point. One would think it scarcely possible that so
penitential a chant could form the usual musical accompaniment to
Sunday Mass! A teacher of music from a neighboring glen used to
come over from time to time to practise the singers.
"I mind weel," said Bell, "he had a wand and a tunin' fork." Are these
not the recognized signs of ability, all the world over, to conduct a band
of singers? The practices were held in the priest's house; sometimes the
pastor would join in the singing, although Bell naïvely remarked on
that point:
"He hadna much ear for music, ye ken."
Of the priest of that day, "Mr." McGillivray, as the old style of address
ran, more will be said later. The figure next in prominence to him in
Bell's recollections was the old sacristan, Robbie Benzie. For many
years he acted as "clerk" at the altar, continuing to carry out his duties
when well advanced in years. During the week he carried on his trade
of weaver; on Sundays he was at his post betimes, carrying a lantern
with him, from which he took the light for the altar candles. Bell
describes him as a stalwart man with fine features and dark eyes. Clad
in his green tartan plaid, he always accompanied the priest round the
little chapel with the