INCIDENTS IN BLINKBONNY.
“Oh! many a shaft at random sentFinds mark the archer little meant!And many a word at random spokenMay soothe or wound a heart that’s broken.”Sir Walter Scott.
“Oh! many a shaft at random sentFinds mark the archer little meant!And many a word at random spokenMay soothe or wound a heart that’s broken.”Sir Walter Scott.
“Oh! many a shaft at random sentFinds mark the archer little meant!And many a word at random spokenMay soothe or wound a heart that’s broken.”
“Oh! many a shaft at random sent
Finds mark the archer little meant!
And many a word at random spoken
May soothe or wound a heart that’s broken.”
Sir Walter Scott.
Sir Walter Scott.
THE energy of the Free Church had been a subject of special dislike to Miss Park; and when she heard that Mr. Barrie called on Dan, and that Bell, for whom before the Disruption she had a great respect, was on such intimate terms with him that she actually allowed him to sit in her kitchen, and even tried to make a Free Churchman of him, she was exceedingly bitter in her remarks on the subject.
One day Mr. Walker chanced to call, and she expatiated to him on the burning shame she felt at such ongoings.
“The Free Church folks must be hard up for supporters when they have to go to such a worthless vagabond and try to make a Christian of him. It’s adisgrace, a scandal—it’s sacrilege!” and much to the same effect.
Mr. Walker not only did not sympathize with her, but spoke very firmly to her for thus traducing the very first principles of Christian charity, and said that the “plucking of such brands from the burning was the grandest work the Church could undertake.”
“Then why didyounot do it?” said Miss Park.
Mr. Walker pled guilty to having been remiss in discharging such duties, but said that he would try to amend, and that he would see Dan soon.
He told her that it was not an easy matter to meet every case. “For instance,” said he, “I was calling a fortnight ago on a man; he said he was in great distress, both of mind and body, ‘just real ill—just real, real ill, every way, temporally and spiritually—a’ wrang, body and the ither way; an’ to add to my troubles, my landlord—the sweep o’er there—has warned me out o’ his house, for altho’ I aye paid him his rent, plack an’ farthin’, when I was weel, I’ve fa’en behind this half-year, an’ I’m just fair despairin’, just awfu’ bad.’ I advised him to cast all his cares, of every kind, temporal and spiritual, cares of mind, cares of body, cares of estate, on his Maker, and ask His guidance.”
“IT’S AN ILL WIND.”
“I have just now returned from visiting him, and to-day I found him in grand spirits, although not, in my opinion, so much improved in health as to account for his being so very cheerful. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘how do you feel to-day?’ ‘Eh, sir!’ said he, ‘yon was a grand advice ye gied me a fortnight ago, just an awfu’ grand advice. When you went out I just did as you told me: I cast a’ my care o’ a’ kinds, baith for this world an’ the next, a’ my care about mysel’ an’ fam’ly, indeed a’thing, where ye tell’d me;’ and, he added, with a very hearty voice, jerking his thumb in the direction of his landlord’s house, ‘eh, man!the sweep’s deid; he’ll no’ bother me again. So, ye see, it’s a grand thing to tak’ gude advice; an’ hasna’ Providence been kind, kind?’”
I can recall a visit I paid to a widow shortly after her husband’s death. He was a well-informed, active, abstemious man, but had a very violent temper, and was more easily put into a towering passion than any man I ever knew. On the slightest provocation, often on none, he would say the snellest [most biting], sharpest things. He was a fireside theologian, well read in the old divines, and an extreme Calvinist, for he came of a Cameronian stock, and was a Pharisee of the Pharisees as touching every jot and tittle of church law and form.
I knew the household well, and whenever I appeared, Mrs. Gray welcomed me. She was a quiet, industrious body, and had been to him a good wife under very difficult circumstances. She had got through with her work amongst her cows for the night, but had still on the rough worsted apron of nappy homespun wool, called a “brat.” She told me familiarly to take a chair, and sat down herself in an old high-backed arm-chair, which stood close to the chimney cheek. There were two or three cushions on it, highest at the back: it looked an uncomfortable seat, but it enabled her to rest her feet on the floor, so that her posture was half leaning backwards and half sitting. She filled her pipe, for smoking was not unknown amongst the women-folks round Blinkbonny, but instead of lighting it by a spunk, she pushed it into the “ribs” of the kitchen fire, and left it there for a second or two. Whilst she was preparing for her favourite “weakness,” I referred to her late husband as mildly as I could, speaking of his infirmity of temper as now no more to him, as it really had been a source of “great tribulation.”
THE SPEERIT OF MEEKNESS.
She withdrew the pipe from the fire, and put it in her mouth. Some burning sparks were now and again falling from it on to her brat, but this did not seem to annoy her, she “dichtit” [wiped] them quietly downher sloping figure, and said after a few “draws,” “‘Deed ay, it just shows ye”—here she took a few more draws in silence—“that the grace o’ God will bide wi’ a man that nae ither body can bide wi’,”—another silent draw or two,—“for I haena the slichtest doubt but that Tammas is in heaven;” some strong draws followed, as the profuse smoke testified,—“buthe was ill to thole [put up with] here. I had my ain adaes [to do] wi’ him, for he was just a very passionate man; but ae part o’ the white robe he has on noo will be the speerit o’ meekness.”
An elder in one of the Blinkbonny churches was a very reserved, silent man, almost afraid to hear the sound of his own voice. He was an undertaker, and was on one occasion employed at a funeral. The company had met, but the minister did not turn up,—a very unusual thing, for clergymen are most attentive on such occasions.—(His absence was caused by the breaking down of a gig when he was on the way.) The father of the dead child whispered quietly into the undertaker’s ear:
“Just pit up a prayer yersel’, Mr. Sommerville, if you please.”
“Eh!” said the worthy man; “no—eh—no—oh, dinna, dinna ask me; no, I canna!”
After waiting another quarter of an hour, during which the elder was in a state of great nervous excitement, the father again came to him, but the elder beckoned him to come out of the room. When both were outside, the father said:
“Eh, Mr. Sommerville, the wife, puir bodie, canna bear to let her wee Tammie be ‘liftit’ without a bit word o’ prayer; an’ she hasna gotten to the kirk since Tammie turned badly, an’ she’ll be the better, an we’ll a’ be the better, o’ a bit prayer. It’s awfu’ heathen-like to tak’ awa’ the bit bairn for gude an’ a’ out o’ it’s mother’s house without a word o’ comfort; dinna refuse us—we’re a’ kent [known] folk here.”
Mr. Sommerville, who was twitching his fingers until the father had finished, said: “Oh! for ony favour dinna ask me,—I positeevely cannot do’t in company;” then taking the father’s hand he pulled him near him, and said with great earnestness: “I wad rather gi’e thecoffin for naething. Oh! ask the new schoolmaster.”
This was a young teacher who had lately come to Blinkbonny, and although he was taken aback, he engaged shortly in prayer. All present were much pleased, said that he was an uncommonly nice lad, very obliging, and that anybody could see by his prayer that “the root o’ the matter was in him.”
MODEST WORTH.
It may seem strange to add that Mr. Sommervillewas a first-rate elder; he was charitable, considerate, upright, and helpful to many. His advices were short, but very “pat:” to the rash, it was, “Leisure a wee;” to the foolish, “Mend your ways;” to the intemperate, “Do thyself no harm;” to his apprentices or workmen when they committed mistakes, his reproofs were not rebukes, far less reproaches, but, “It’s a pity,” “Ye’ve gane wrang,” “That’s no’ wiselike;” the most severe was, “That’s very stupid-like.”
Mr. Tait, the young schoolmaster above referred to, had succeeded the good old man who had been parish teacher for nearly half a century. He was selected from a list of applicants owing to the excellent testimonials he presented, and had been asked to meet with the examination committee in Mr. Walker’s house before the appointment was finally made. He had acted for some time as assistant in a parish school adjoining Middlemoor, and was well known to Mr. Walker. Report said he was “after” a niece of Mr. Walker’s.
Mr. Tait on the day of meeting was shown into the parlour beside Mrs. Walker, the committee being in the study. He told Mrs. Walker how nervous he was, and he looked it. She told him not to be afraid—she would help him through. There was a roast of beef at the kitchen fire, which she made the servant carrythrough the lobby, and slowly past the door of the study; when the fragrant steam got diffused, she opened the study door, and said, “Mr. Tait’s here.”
THE CIVIL SERVICE EXAMINATION.
The other business that had occupied the committee was very quickly despatched. Mr. Tait was called in, and Mr. Walker was telling the committee what he knew of Mr. Tait’s abilities and scholarship, when Mrs. Walker, after the servant had again carried the hissing roast through the lobby, half opened the study door, and gave a nod to Mr. Walker. This, along with the appeal to the lower nature through the sense of smell, proved irresistible. The gentleman who had been deputed to examine the applicant did so with such haste, and put such childish questions, that everybody saw it was a joke, for he rattled off questions and answers as quickly as he could. Mr. Tait never needed to utter a word.
Arithmetic,—said he.Ques.How many are six and four?—Ans.Ten, to be sure; that will do for that.
History.—Ques.Who gave the king the most practical lessons?—Ans.George Buchanan; right again.
Geography.—Ques.What is the largest town in the world?Ans.Why, Biggar of course—London’s a big town, but Biggar’s Biggar.
Mathematics.—Ques.What is a simple equation?Ans.Six and half-a-dozen.
Latin.—Ques.What is the Latin for Fish?Ans.Aqua vitæ, or “Glenlivat.”Ques.TranslateEx nihilo nihil fit?Ans.It’s time we had something.
General Knowledge.—Ques.What’s the best change for a wearied teacher?Ans.Hill air, for it always makes him hilarious.
Literature.—Ques.What did John Gilpin’s wife say to him, and what did he reply?
Ans.“The dinner waits, and we are tired;”Says Gilpin, “So am I.”
The examination was declared satisfactory. Mr. Tait was appointed schoolmaster of Blinkbonny. The merry company sought the dining-room, did ample justice to Mrs. Walker’s hospitality, and drank Mr. Tait’s good health and great success to him after that toast had been proposed by Mr. Walker, who, in doing so, spoke a good deal of Mr. Tait’s uncle, David Tait of Blackbrae in this parish, who will reappear more prominently amongst the future “Bits.”
My brother-in-law, the Rev. John Macnab, had come out with the Free Church, and was assisting Mr. Barrie at a communion season. The sermon he preached in the evening was a most carefully prepared one; his subject was “Heaven;” and as I do not wishto give an opinion of my relative’s abilities, I may say that three of the elders said it was “most beautiful,—it was like a series of dissolving views.” It was a long sermon, and the descriptive part of it took up so much time that there was no “application” part in it.
Old George Brown was, as he had often been on similar occasions, my guest for the “preachin’s,” as the services at communion seasons were called; and in these days they were abundant in number, being two sermons on Thursday, one on Saturday, and at least one on Monday, besides from about eleven to four and an evening service on Sabbath.
When we got home, George astonished Mr. Macnab by the amount of the day’s services he could repeat; and when he had given hisrésuméof the evening sermon, he finished up with:
“It was really a grand sermon as far as it went. I never enjoyed a description of heaven better. Ye told us a’thing aboot heaven excepthoo to get there; and, Maister Macnab, you’ll excuse me, my young friend, for sayin’ that that shouldna hae been left out, for ye’ll admit yersel’ if that’s awantin’ a’s awantin’. Ye’ll mind o’ the king’s son’s feast? The servants didna only tell that a’thing was ready, but they compelled them to come in.”
“THERE.”
Mr. Macnab said to me that night as we sat together after every other body had retired: “I’ve been criticized by learned professors and doctors of divinity, by ministers of experience and ability, by fellow-students and relatives, but that good old man has given me more insight into what preaching should be than all the others put together; and I hope that as long as I live I will never, never, when delivering God’s message to my fellow-men, forget to tell them ‘how to get there.’”
George “got there” before another communion season came round, and with him were buried many sayings that were “like apples of gold in pictures of silver.” Those I have tried to reproduce will remind many men who are now far on in the journey of life of the frequent use of Scripture language and metaphor by the men of two or three generations ago. A tall man was a “Saul among the people;” news were carried “from Dan to Beersheba;” a disagreeable man was “a Mordecai at the gate;” and language which was in any way approaching profanity,—and the standard was a rigorous one,—was styled “part in the speech of Ashdod, and part in the Jews’ language.” Single names were also used, and to many they were most expressive, such as an “Achan,” a “Jezebel,” a “Nathaniel,” a “Goshen,” an “Ishmael.”
I have heard a keen politician, during the course of the election of a member of Parliament (in the days of open voting, before the “ballot” was introduced, when the hourly returns of the voting at the various polling stations were made, and transmitted by swift riders from one to another), as the numbers were summed up, ask, in order to know the state of the poll, “Is the young man Absalom safe?” I have also heard a very worthy elder say in the presence of a very worthy minister, “Mary, bring out Jeroboam.” Mary produced the whisky bottle. My teetotal friends will doubtless think this a most appropriate name.
Mrs. Barrie had been so pleased with Dan’s attention to Nellie’s grave, that she laid aside the first suit of clothes Mr. Barrie cast off (I may as well tell that Bell and she between them had “turned” them), and she was debating with herself whether to go to his house with them, or send for him, when she met him at the manse gate. With considerable difficulty she prevailed on him to come up to the house, but could not induce him to come on to the front approach, much less in by the front door.
“I’ll stand here, if you please, mem,” said Dan.
THE WEIGHT OF HONOURS.
“But I wish to speak with you in the house, Mr. Corbett, if you please,” said Mrs. Barrie.Dan grinned from ear to ear at “Mr.” Corbett; he did not remember of ever having been called that before, and he kept repeating, “Maister,—Maister, if you please—Eh, Dan, ye’ll dae now,” laughing heartily either to or at himself. Dan seldom laughed—it was almost a new sensation to him; but the “Maister, if you please,” tickled him immensely, and by the time Bell had got the kitchen door open, for she saw him halt before the window, and slap his leg, and laugh until even the blind eye opened and yielded copious tears (so she said), he was in a social, happy glow.
“What’s ta’en ye the day, Dan? what grand news hae ye gotten? have ye seen the Cornel?”
Dan could not reply, but brushed past Bell, and said when he settled a little:
“It’s naething at a’, Bell—it’s fair silliness o’ me; but Mrs. Barrie met me at the road end and said,” here he fell a-laughing again,—“‘Maister Corbett, if you please.’ I’m no’ used wi’ such genty manners, an’ like mony anither fule I was laughin’ at mysel’.”
Mrs. Barrie came into the kitchen, and he laughed when she again called him “Mr. Corbett,” and said: “Ca’ me Dan, if you please, mem; naebody ever ca’d me Maister a’ my days afore, and it sounds very droll—Maisterin’me.”
“Well, Daniel, then!” said Mrs. Barrie.
“Dan, if you please, mem—just plain Dan.”
“Well, Dan!”
“Ay, that’s liker the thing,” said he.
And Mrs. Barrie spoke very nicely to him; her silver tones touched his ear like music, and her words reached his heart as she thanked him for what he had so beautifully done at wee Nellie’s grave; and she prevailed on him to come into the dining-room to see a miniature of her Nellie that a friend had painted from memory, and presented to her. There were other pictures on the walls, mostly engravings, which Mrs. Barrie explained so neatly, and with so much animation and clearness, that Dan forgot himself in listening to her, and when she had gone round the room he asked:
“What did ye say about this ane, if you please, mem? I think ye called it the Angel’s Whisper?”
“MINISTERING ANGELS.”
When she re-described it, he asked about another and another. All the engravings were on suggestive subjects, and Mrs. Barrie made them doubly interesting by her explanations; and almost unconsciously to herself, she kept dropping into his weary heart simple loving words of truth and peace as poor Dan turned from one picture to another, and Mrs. Barrie followed up her description with increasinginterest to herself as well as to Dan. She also gave him the clothes, and very sweetly counselled him to go to the church, any church he liked, and he would hear some fine pictures.
“There’s nane in the Blinkbonny kirks that I ever heard o’, unless it be yon marble image on young Captain McLellan’s headstane at the side o’ the auld kirk pulpit; an’ I aye said to Guy’s gude-faither, auld Ritchie, that it was daftlike to hae guns and bayonets an’ swords stuck up like stooky [stucco] images in a kirk. But I dinna ken what to do wi’ thae fine claes [clothes]; they’re no’ the least like me.”
Dan, however, accepted them at length with a very proper bow, if lowness is any criterion, took another look of Nellie’s miniature, and made several bows to Mrs. Barrie as he left the dining-room.
His description of the pictures gave Bell great delight, and she dropped in a useful word or hint now and again as he went on. Dan ended with:
“Bell, yon picture o’ wee Nellie let’s me ken her noo, an’ I will keep her grave snod; an’ there’s yon ane about the angel’s whisper, an’ anither ane I maun ask ye to let me see again some day. D’ye ken if Mrs. Barrie wad haud [hold] the kirk in the dinin’-room, an’ gang o’er yon pictures, she wad beat a’ the ministers ever I heard” (“No very mony, after a’,” thoughtDan to himself, “mair’s the pity”). “What for do they no’ hae pictures in the kirk, an’ tell ye’ about them, like Mrs. Barrie? I think they wad soon fill their kirks if they did that.”
Dan tried on the clothes as soon as he got home, and he scarcely knew himself. His first remark was, “Guy, mind yersel’, or I’ll rin ye hard for the beadleship!” His next, looking at his hands, “They’s no like thae claes.” He then took down his fishing-rod, took his towel with him (it was a ragged old potato bag), bought a bit of soap as he passed through the village, sought out a quiet pool, and made himself as clean as soap, water, and a rough towel could make him. After this was over, “Ah, but I’m the better o’ that; I’ll do’t oftener,” said he, and put up his fishing-rod. The best of the fish he caught were put under Knowe Park “bass” as formerly, long after night had fairly settled down. Dan started next day to clean his house. Some corners needed it very badly. He did the cleaning very well considering.
He had a strange dream the night after he had seen the pictures, and after thinking over it and wondering about it for nearly a week, he was driven to tell it to Bell for peace’ sake, as follows:
THE GATES AJAR.
“I thocht I was in heaven, an’ about the first body I met was wee Nellie. I didna ken her at first, butshe kent me, an’ she was that glad to see me; an’ somehow I wasna the least feared. An’ she asked me if I would come an’ see her mansion, an’ she took me into a beautiful room, an’—but I couldna lay’d off till ye, so I’ll no try’t—an’ I asked her wha gied her’t, an’ I never saw onything as bonnie as her face, or heard onything as sweet as her voice, as she said, ‘Jesus! O Dan, come away an’ see Him!’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘Nellie; He’s no’ for the like o’ me.’ If ye had seen her face when she said, ‘But He is, Dan, He is; He likes you better than a’ the gold in a’ the world.’ Then she said, ‘I’ll let ye see mamma’s mansion.’ It was as bonnie as Nellie’s, but it was a’ hung round wi’ pictures, an’ Mrs. Barrie was in them a’, an’ aye some ither wi’ her—whiles ane, Nellie, or maybe Mr. Barrie, an’ whiles folk I ken, besides folk I dinna ken; but she was aye in the middle o’ the picture. An’ there was ane wi’ mysel’ an’ her in’t, an’ it was something like the ‘Angel’s Whisper,’—but the angels were awfu’ like her tae.
“An’ Nellie showed me your mansion, Bell, an’ it was braw, an’ fu’ o’ bonnie pictures just like Mrs. Barrie’s; an’ I was in some o’ them tae. An’ I noticed that ye had on your everyday working claes—your very commonest, and hardly ever on your Sabbath claes at a’.
“Weel, Nellie said to me, ‘Come an’ see yourmansion, Dan.’ I was kind o’ terrified, but she could mak’ me do anything she likit. Weel, we went to what she ca’d my mansion, an’ the pictures round it were fearsome to look at, an’ I was in the middle o’ every ane; an’ there was ane where there were angels very like Mrs. Barrie, an’ Mr. Barrie, an’ you, speaking to me, an’ lookin’ at me, an’ pointin’ up,—an’ I lookit up.
“I was sae much ta’en up wi’ the pictures, I didna notice that Nellie had gaen out; but when I saw Mrs. Barrie an’ you pointin’ up in the picture, I lookit up, an’ in a moment Nellie comes in an’ says, ‘Here’s Jesus;’ an’ all at once the pictures vanished, an’ the walls were as clean an’ white as the driven snaw, an’ there was only one picture left, an’ that was Jesus. An’ somehow He didna fear me till He cam’ out o’ the picture an’ showed me His hands, an’ there were marks in the very middle o’ them, like as if nails had once been driven through them; an’ he was gaun to lay His hands on me when I wakened;—and it’s been in my head ever since, but I didna like to tell aboot it. D’ye think it means that I shouldna wear yon fine claes? or what d’ye think?”
Need I say that Bell was greatly struck with the dream, and did what she could to press home the lesson it so clearly taught? But Dan said, “Oh, but,Bell, mind He didna lay hands on me; but that was maybe my blame, for I started back. But I’m glad I’ve tell’t you, an’ ye can tell Mrs. Barrie if you like.”
NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.
Bell did so. And although Dan was not much changed outwardly, he liked to speak to Bell about good things, and gave over sundry bad habits, and went to Mr. Walker’s kirk; although, poor man, he knew so little about the service, that when Mr. Walker said at the end of his sermon, “I will conclude by,” Dan set off, supposing that all would follow very soon, and he was astonished to find that the folk took so long to come home from the church that day. Generally his wonder had been, “Are they oot a’ready?” as Sunday forenoon had been a great day for Watty and his cronies meeting in Dan’s house and garden for a crack on bull-dogs, game-cocks, and sporting matters. But they paid this respect to religion, that they did not start for Dan’s until the church was “in,” and left so as to be home before the church was out.
Dan gave up keeping game fowls, but stuck to his other favourites, and became a quieter man; but I will not enter further into his state of mind than say that, I believe he attended the parish church, and I was told that some time after the dream, but I cannot say as to the precise date, he tried to put himself in the way of Mr. Scott of Babbie’s Mill.
Mr. Scott stared to see Dan, and spoke rudely to him. Dan waited till he was done, and then said, “Mr. Scott, there’s a slap in your hedge, an’ the sheep’s among the corn. I’ve driven them out, and stappit [pushed] in a bush, but if ye’ve ony stabs or palings I’ll mend it for ye in a crack.”
“I want nane o’ yer mendings.”
“Aweel,” said Dan, “I see ye’re angry; and I can only say, Mr. Scott, if ye’ll no’ be friends, dinna blame me. I own I spoke sair till ye, but was you no’ first in the fault? I’m no’ seeking onything frae ye, but as I’m an auld man I want to die in peace wi’ my neibours, so I ax yer pardon, and gude day.”
“Die in peace!—ye’ll die in a jail, or no’ unlikely on a gallows!” said the miller.
“Maybe,” said Dan, “but Mr. Walker was tellin’ us on Sabbath about a deein’ thief, an’ he was made a’ richt as he was deein’; an’ maybe Him that helpit him will help me.”
“Dan,” said the miller in astonishment, “are you gaun to the kirk noo?”
“Ay,” said Dan,—“whiles.”
“Weel, Dan, ye seem to make a better use o’ the kirk than I dae; and as ye was saying, we’ll let byganes be byganes. And thank ye about the sheep.”
THE PIPE OF PEACE.
“Aweel,” replied Dan, “Mr. Walker whiles speaksabout lost sheep, and I thocht as I saw yours amang the corn, that the sooner our slaps [gaps] are filled up the better for ourselves and for the sheep, for some o’ them seemedswalled[swollen].”
The miller and Dan started with the requisites, mended the slap, looked at the sheep, smoked a quiet pipe, and parted.
“That cowes [beats] a’,” said the miller.
“The canny way’s the best way, after a’,” said Dan.
Colonel Gordon was spending part of the summer with Mr. Kirkwood, and they called at Knowe Park. The Colonel’s relationship to Mrs. Barrie was clearly established; and a piano, and some other marks of kindness on the Colonel’s part, were sent from Edinburgh shortly thereafter. But unfortunately Bell was not in when the gentlemen called, greatly to Mr. Kirkwood’s regret, and their visit had been a short one.
Colonel Gordon was in indifferent health, and Mr. Kirkwood would not allow him to exert or excite himself in any way, so that Bell’s “castle in the air” was as hazy as ever; and as neither Mr. nor Mrs. Barrie had thought much on the matter, the presents were taken as tokens of goodwill, and politely acknowledged as such, but they formed no ground in their minds of any, far less of such great expectations as they did in Bell’s.
The social element in religion was greatly promoted by the soirees and meetings of that nature held in connection with the Free Church. Mr. Barrie used to tell of Mr. Taylor’s usual welcome when he dropped in of an evening: “Come away, Mr. Barrie, ye’ll spend an hour wi’ us. There’s a great deal o’ religion in sociality, an’ there’s far ower little sociality in our religion—for that’s what I think is the ‘communion of saints,’ it’s just sociality—gude neibourship, as far as our firesides are concerned.”
At one of our soirees—I think it was in 1850—Sir John McLelland suddenly appeared in the Free Church lobby. Dr. Guthrie was one of the speakers, and the church was crammed. Some young men acted as ticket-collectors and stewards at the door, and they had been so anxious to lose nothing of the speeches, that they did not even look round in reply to Sir John’s question, “Could you find room for me?”
“Have you a ticket?” was the reply.
“A ticket! What sort of ticket? I’ve no ticket,” said Sir John.
“Weel, there are no bags left, and there’s no room in the church, so you cannot get in.”
LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP.
This was said without the speaker’s even turning round to see to whom he was speaking. Luckilyone of the deacons observed Sir John, who said to him, “Can I not get in? This young man here spoke to me about some bag and ticket, and said I could not get in.”
“Stupid fellow!—beg pardon!—please come this way,” was the reply.
When the poor steward looked round he was so utterly ashamed of himself that he stood speechless. He “catch’t it” from the other stewards, and his evening’s enjoyment was spoiled.
Sir John was shown into the vestry, and when the speaker for the time had concluded, he came to the platform.
The surprise at his appearance added to the warmness of his reception. It seemed as if the audience could not cease their expressions of delight. When silence was restored, Mr. Barrie announced Dr. Guthrie as the next speaker.
Sir John instantly rose and asked to be allowed to say a few words. He first told the story of the children and Dr. Guthrie at the post-office, which made Kennedy the tailor spring first on to the seat, then stand astride on two seats, and wave his Turkey-red and white spotted cotton handkerchief so excitedly, and cheer so loudly, that he had to be taken down almost by force.
After Kennedy was quiet, Sir John said, “I spoke to Mr. Barrie and several of this audience at the time of the Disruption in a way that I now regret. My language was unguarded and unwise. I do not state my present opinions; but I then made publicly some very strong statements which I now wish as publicly to withdraw. Mr. Barrie, and hundreds of ministers besides him, acted like truly Christian heroes, and carried out their conscientious convictions in most difficult and trying circumstances. I honour them for it. But,” turning to the audience, “I honour you, and those who form the membership of the Free Church of Scotland, for the noble, and liberal, and high-toned manner in which you have recognised this heroism, and carried forward so triumphantly the cause for which they contended. The Free Church is in my opinion, in Scotland,THEeventof the century, and I can hardly conceive that a more noble testimony to principle could have been possible in any other country in the world.”
Then turning to Dr. Guthrie, he asked to be excused for almost interrupting him; and to the audience for trespassing on their patience when such a speaker as Dr. Guthrie was to follow him.
Dr. Guthrie shook hands long and warmly with Sir John, and they had plenty of time; and when Dr.Guthrie did speak, it was with a “forty parson” power. He excelled himself, enchained his audience, and that soiree is a “red-letter” day in Blinkbonny Free Church annals.
Bell said it was “awfu’ splendid,”—“just magnificent,”—“it beat everything,”—“she just couldna say what it wasna,—it was ‘maist awfu’, awfu’ splendid!”
THE ANGEL’S WHISPER.
By Samuel Lover.
A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that when a child smiles in its sleep it is “talking with angels.”
A baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping,For her husband was far on the wild raging sea,And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman’s dwelling,And she cried, “Dermot, darling, oh, come back to me!”Her beads while she number’d, the baby still slumber’d,And smiled in her face as she bended her knee;“Oh! blest be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning,For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.“And while they are keeping bright watch o’er thy sleeping,Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me,And say thou wouldst rather they’d watch o’er thy father;For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.”The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning,And the wife wept with joy her babe’s father to see;And closely caressing her child, with a blessing,Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.”
A baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping,For her husband was far on the wild raging sea,And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman’s dwelling,And she cried, “Dermot, darling, oh, come back to me!”Her beads while she number’d, the baby still slumber’d,And smiled in her face as she bended her knee;“Oh! blest be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning,For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.“And while they are keeping bright watch o’er thy sleeping,Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me,And say thou wouldst rather they’d watch o’er thy father;For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.”The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning,And the wife wept with joy her babe’s father to see;And closely caressing her child, with a blessing,Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.”
A baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping,For her husband was far on the wild raging sea,And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman’s dwelling,And she cried, “Dermot, darling, oh, come back to me!”
A baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping,
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea,
And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman’s dwelling,
And she cried, “Dermot, darling, oh, come back to me!”
Her beads while she number’d, the baby still slumber’d,And smiled in her face as she bended her knee;“Oh! blest be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning,For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.
Her beads while she number’d, the baby still slumber’d,
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee;
“Oh! blest be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning,
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.
“And while they are keeping bright watch o’er thy sleeping,Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me,And say thou wouldst rather they’d watch o’er thy father;For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.”
“And while they are keeping bright watch o’er thy sleeping,
Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me,
And say thou wouldst rather they’d watch o’er thy father;
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.”
The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning,And the wife wept with joy her babe’s father to see;And closely caressing her child, with a blessing,Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.”
The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning,
And the wife wept with joy her babe’s father to see;
And closely caressing her child, with a blessing,
Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.”