The Cullen Collection

George MacDonald, Michael Phillips

• Publisher: RosettaBooks
• Year: 2018
• ISBN:
  9780795351938
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

A masterful and timeless novel from the renowned Scottish author—the work that established his place in the pantheon of British literature. Released in 1865 as the second of his major Scottish novels, many consider Alec Forbes of Howglen George MacDonald's most uniformly cohesive work of fiction. Intensely Scottish in flavor, like its predecessor David Elginbrod, the thick Doric dialect of much of the novel was relished by Victorians. Set in MacDonald's hometown of Huntly, this story of Alec Forbes and Annie Anderson contains many autobiographical glimpses of MacDonald's own boyhood, capturing the delights of youth and the anguish of first loves. While preserving the flavor of MacDonald's original, this updated edition by Michael Phillips translates the Scottish dialect, in which most of MacDonald's Scottish stories are written, into readable English.

— One —

Burying Day

The farmyard was full of the light of a summer noonday. Not a living creature was to be seen in all the square enclosure, though barns and stables formed the greater part of it, while one end was occupied by a house. Through the gate at the other end, far off in fenced fields might be seen the dark forms of cattle.* And on a road nearer by, a cart crawled along, drawn by one sleepy horse. An occasional weary low came from some imprisoned cow, or animal of the cow-kind, but not even a cat crossed the yard. The door of the empty barn was open and through the opposite doorway shone the last year’s ricks of corn, * standing golden in the sun.

Although a farmyard is not, either in Scotland or elsewhere, the liveliest of places about noon in the summer, there was a peculiar cause rendering this one, at this moment, exceptionally deserted and dreary. There were, however, a great many more people about the place than usual. But they were all gathered in the nicest room of the house—a room of tolerable size, with a clean boarded floor, a mahogany table black with age, and chairs with high straight backs. Every one of these chairs was occupied by a silent man whose gaze was either fixed on the floor or lost in the voids of space. Most were clothed in black from head to foot and each wore a black coat. Their hard, thick, brown hands—hands evidently unused to idleness—grasped their knees or, folded in each other, rested upon them. Some bottles and glasses, with a plate of biscuits, on a table in a corner seemed to indicate that the meeting was not entirely for business purposes. Yet there were no signs of any sort of enjoyment. Nor was there a woman to be seen in the company.

Suddenly a man appeared at the open door whose shirtsleeves showed very white against his other clothing, which, like that of the rest, was black.

“If any of ye want to see the corpse, noo’s yer time,” he said to the assembly.

No one responded to his offer. With a slight air of discomfiture, for he was a busy man and liked bustle, the carpenter turned on his heel and re-ascended the narrow stairs to the upper room where the corpse lay waiting for its final dismissal.

“I reckon they’ve all seen him afore,” he remarked as he rejoined his companion. “Poor fellow! He’s sure some worn. There’ll be no muckle of him to rise again.”

“George, man, dinna jeest i’ the face o’ a corp,” returned the other. “Ye kenna whan yer ain turn may come.”

“It’s no disrespeck to the deid, Thamas. That ye ken weel eneuch. I was only pityin’ the worn face of him, leukin up there atween the buirds, as gien he had gotten what he wanted sae lang, and was thankin’ heaven for that same. I jist dinna like to pit the lid ower him.”

“Hoot! hoot! Lat the Lord luik efter his ain. The lid of the coffin disna hide frae his een.” *

The last speaker was a stout, broad-shouldered man, a stonemason by trade, powerful and somewhat asthmatic. He was regarded in the neighbourhood as a very religious man, but was more respected than liked because his forte was rebuke.

Together they lifted the last covering of the dead, laid it over him, and fastened it down. And now there was darkness about the dead. But he knew it not, because he was full of light. For this man was one who all his life had striven to be better.

Meantime, the clergyman having arrived, the usual religious ceremonial of a Scottish funeral—the reading of the Word and prayer—was going on below.

“The minister’s come, Thomas,” said the carpenter.

“Come or gang,” said Thomas, “it’s muckle the same. The word itsel’ oot of his mou’ fa’s as deid as chaff upo’ clay. Honest Jeames there’ll rise ance mair, but never a word that man says, wi’ the croon of ’s heid i’ the how of ’s neck, ’ll rise to beir witness of his ministrations.”

“Hoot, Thamas! It’s no for the likes of me to flee i’ your face—but jist say a fair word for the livin’ ower the deid, ye ken.”

“Na, na. It’s fair words maks foul wark, and the wrath of the Almichty maun purge this toon or a’ be dune. There’s a heap of graceless gaeins on in’t, and that puir feckless body, the minister, never gies a pu’ at the bridle of salvation, to haud them aff of the scaur of hell.” *

The stonemason generally spoke of the Almighty as if he were in a state of restrained indignation at the wrongs he endured from his children. If Thomas was right in this, then certainly he himself was one of his offspring. If he was wrong, then there was much well worth his unlearning.

When the prayer was over, the company again seated themselves, waiting till the coffin, now descending the stairs, should be placed in the hearse, which stood at the door. One after another slowly rose and withdrew to the door, watched in silence, and at last fell in behind the body and moved in an irregular procession from the yard. They were joined by several more men in gigs and on horseback. And thus they crept, a curious train, away toward the resting place of the dead.

It would be a dreary rest, indeed, if that were their resting place—on the side of a low hill, without tree or shrub to beautify it, or even the presence of an old church to seem to sanctify the spot. There was some long grass in it, though, climbing up as if it sought to bury the gravestones in their turn. And that long grass was a blessing. Better still, there was a sky overhead, in which men cannot set up any gravestones.

— Two —

Auntie and Brownie

When the last man had disappeared, the women began to come out as if emerging from an eastern harem. The first to enter the deserted room was a hard-featured, reproachful-looking woman, the sister of the departed. She instantly began to put the place in order, as if she expected to have her turn on the morrow. In a few moments a servant-girl appeared and began to assist her. She had been crying, and the tears continued to come in spite of her efforts to suppress them. In the vain attempt to dry her eyes with the corner of her apron, she nearly dropped one of the chairs which she was both dusting and restoring to its usual place. Her mistress turned upon her with a kind of cold fierceness.

“Is that how ye show yer regard for the dead, by breaking the chairs he left behind him? Let it sit and go out and look for that poor half-witted Annie. If it had only been the Almighty’s will to hae taken her and left him, honest man.”

“Dinna say a word against the child, mem. The dead’ll hear ye and not lie still.”

“Go and do what I tell ye this minute! What business do ye have to go crying about the hoose? He wasna a drop of blood of yers.”

To this the girl made no reply but left the room in quest of Annie. When she reached the door, she stood for a moment on the threshold and shouted, “Annie!”

But apparently startled at the sound of her own voice where the unhearing dead had so recently passed, she let the end of the call die away and set off to find the missing child by the use of her eyes alone.

First she went into the barn, and then through it into the field, round the ricks one after another, then into the grain loft—but all to no avail. At length she came to the door of one of the cow-houses. She looked round the corner into the stall next to the door. This stall was occupied by a favourite cow—brown with large white spots—called Brownie. Her manger was full of fresh-cut grass. Half buried in the grass at one end, with her back against the wall, sat Annie, holding one of the ears of the hornless Brownie with one hand and stroking the creature’s nose with the other.

She was a delicate child, about nine years old, with blue eyes half full of tears, hair somewhere between dark and fair, and a pale face on which a faint smile was glimmering. The old cow continued to hold out her nose to be stroked.

“Isn’t Brownie a fine cow, Betty?” said the child as the maid went on staring at her. “Poor Brownie! Nobody minded me and so I came to you, Brownie.”

She laid her cheek—white, smooth, and thin—against the broad, flat, hairy forehead of the friendly cow. Then turning again to Betty, she said—

“Don’t tell auntie where I am, Betty. Let me be. I’m best here with Brownie.”

Betty said not a word but returned to her mistress.

“Where’s the bairn, Betty? At some mischief or other?”

“Hoot, mem! The bairn’s well enough. Bairns mustn’t be followed like calves.”

“Where is she?”

“I canna just downright exactly take it upon me to say,” answered Betty, “but I have no fear about her. She’s a wise child.”

“Ye’re no the lassie’s keeper, Betty. I see I must seek her oot myself. Ye’re aiding and abetting as usual.”

So saying, auntie Meg went out to look for her niece. It was some time before the natural order of her search brought her at last to the byre. By that time Annie was almost asleep in the grass, which the cow was gradually pulling away from under her. Through the open door the child could see the sunlight lying heavy upon the hot stones that paved the yard. But where she was it was so dark and cool, and the cow was such good, kindly company, and she was so safe hidden from auntie, as she thought—for no one had ever found her there before and she knew Betty would not tell—that, as I say, she was nearly asleep with comfort, half buried in Brownie’s dinner.

But she was roused all at once to a sense of exposure and insecurity. She looked up, and at that moment the hawk nose of her aunt came round the door. Auntie’s temper was none the better than usual that it had pleased the Almighty to take the brother whom she loved and to leave behind this child whom she regarded as a painful responsibility. And now with her small, fierce eyes, and her big, thin nose—both red with suppressed crying—she did not appear to Annie to embody the maternal love of the universe.

“Ye plaguesome brat!” she cried. “Betty has been looking for ye and I have been looking for ye far and near, in the very rat holes, and here ye are on yer own father’s burying day taking up with a cow!”

The causes of Annie’s preference for the society of Brownie to that of auntie might have been tolerably clear to an onlooker. For to Annie and her needs there was in Brownie’s large, mild eyes and her hairy, featureless face, which was all nose and no nose, more of the divine than in the human form of auntie Meg. And there was something of an indignation quite human in the way the cow tossed her head and neck toward the woman that darkened the door, as if warning her off her premises.

Without a word of reply, Annie rose, flung her arms around Brownie’s head, kissed the white star on her forehead, disengaged herself from the grass, and got out of the manger. Auntie seized her hand with a rough but not altogether ungentle action, and led her away to the house.

The stones felt very hot to her little bare feet.

— Three —

Final Thoughts

By this time the funeral was approaching the churchyard. It stopped at the gate of the yard, and from there it was the hands of friends and neighbours, not undertakers or hired helpers, that bore the dead man to his grave. When the body had been settled into its final place of decay, the last rite to be observed was the silent uncovering of the head, as a last token of respect and farewell.

Before the grave was quite filled the company had nearly gone. Thomas Crann, the stonemason, and George Macwha, the carpenter, alone remained behind, for they had some charge over the arrangements and were now taking a share in covering the grave. At length the last sod was laid upon the mound and stamped into its place, where soon the earth’s broken surface would heal, as society would flow together again, closing over the place that had known the departed and would know him no more. Then Thomas and George sat down opposite each other, on two neighbouring tombstones, and wiping their brows, each gave a sigh of relief, for the sun was hot.

“Tis a weary world,” said George.

“What right hae ye to say it, George?” answered Thomas. “Ye’ve never fought wi’ it, never held the sword o’ the Lord. And so, when the bridegroom comes, ye’ll be ill-off for a light.”

“Hoot, man! Dinna speak such things in the very churchyard.”

“Better hear them in the churchyard than at the closed door, George!”

“Well,” rejoined Macwha, anxious to turn the current of the conversation, “just tell me honestly, Thomas Crann, do ye believe that the dead man—God be with him—”

“No praying for the dead in my hearing, George! As the tree falleth, so it shall lie.”

“Well, I didna mean anything.”

“That I verily believe. Ye seldom do!”

“But I just wanted to ask,” resumed George, nettled at his companion’s persistent discourtesy, “if ye believe that James Anderson here, honest man beneath oor feet, crumbling away—do ye believe that his honest face will one day part the mounds and come up again, jist here, in the face o’ the light, the very same as it vanished when we put the lid over him? Do ye believe that, Thomas Crann?”

“No, no, George, man. Ye know little about what ye’re saying. It’ll be a glorified body he’ll rise wi’. Tis sown in dishonour and raised in glory. Hoot! Ye are ignorant, man!”

Macwha got more nettled still at his tone of superiority.

“Would it be a glorified wooden leg he’d raise with if he had been buried wi’ one?” he asked.

“His own leg would be buried s...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• CONTENTS
• Foreword to The Cullen Collection
• Introduction to Alec Forbes of Howglen
• 1. Burying Day
• 2. Auntie and Brownie
• 3. Final Thoughts
• 4. A Conversation
• 5. Robert Bruce
• 6. The Little Gray Town
• 7. The Robert Bruces
• 8. School
• 9. A New Friend
• 10. A Visit from Auntie
• 11. The Shorter Catechism
• 12. The Next Monday
• 13. A Visit to Howglen
• 14. Alec and Thomas
• 15. The Plot
• 16. Juno
• 17. Revenge
• 18. A Snow Fairy
• 19. Alec’s Boat
• 20. Dowie
• 21. Ballads
• 22. Murdoch Malison
• 23. Religious Talk
• 24. Hellfire
• 25. Truffey
• 26. Mr. Cowie Again
• 27. Thomas Crann
• 28. The Schoolmaster’s New Friend
• 29. The Bonnie Annie
• 30. Changes
• 31. First Days in the City
• 32. Mr. Cupples
• 33. A New Friend
• 34. Alec and Mr. Cupples
• 35. Homecoming
• 36. A New Term
• 37. Kate
• 38. Mr. Cupples’s Warning
• 39. Tibbie’s Cottage
• 40. Annie and Thomas
• 41. Arrival of the Coach
• 42. Kate at Howglen
• 43. Annie’s Kitten
• 44. Tibbie and Thomas
• 45. The Castle Ruin
• 46. The Spirit of Prophecy
• 47. The Bible
• 48. The Stickit Minister
• 49. The Hypocrite
• 50. Kate’s Going
• 51. Rain
• 52. The Flood
• 53. Rescue
• 54. Fall of the Bridge
• 55. The University Again
• 56. The Coming of Womanhood
• 57. In the Library
• 58. The Library in the North
• 59. It Comes to Blows
• 60. Rumours
• 61. The Supper
• 62. From Bad to Worse
• 63. Evil Tidings
• 64. A Solemn Vow
• 65. End of the Session
• 66. Failure, Tragedy, and Recovery
• 67. Mr. Cupples in Glamerton
• 68. A Student Again
• 69. Curly and Bruce
• 70. Deception Revealed
• 71. The Unmasking
• 72. Alec’s Plans
• 73. What If…?
• 74. The Bruce
• 75. The Sailor’s Return
• 76. Away
• 77. A Meeting
• 78. Annie and Alec
• 79. Alec Forbes of Howglen