THE WOUNDS OF A FRIEND.
Winter has certain mornings which redeem weeks of misconduct, when the
hoar frost during the night has re-silvered every branch and braced the
snow upon the ground, and the sun rises in ruddy strength and drives
out of sight every cloud and mist, and moves all day through an expanse
of unbroken blue, and is reflected from the dazzling whiteness of the
earth as from a mirror. Such a sight calls a man from sleep with
authority, and makes his blood tingle, and puts new heart in him, and
banishes the troubles of the night. Other mornings winter joins in the
conspiracy of principalities and powers to daunt and crush the human
soul. No sun is to be seen, and the grey atmosphere casts down the
heart, the wind moans and whistles in fitful gusts, the black clouds
hang low in threatening masses, now and again a flake of snow drifts in
the wind. A storm is near at hand, not the thunder-shower of summer,
with warm rain and the kindly sun in ambush, but dark and blinding
snow, through which even a gamekeeper cannot see six yards, and in
which weary travellers lie down to rest and die.
The melancholy of this kind of day had fallen on Saunderson, whose face
was ashen, and who held Carmichael's hand with such anxious affection
that it was impossible to inquire how he had slept, and it would have
been a banalité to remark upon the weather. After the Rabbi had been
compelled to swallow a cup of milk by way of breakfast, it was evident
that he was ready for speech.
"What is it, Rabbi?" as soon as they were again settled in the study.
"If you did not . . . like my sermon, tell me at once. You know that I
am one of your boys, and you ought to . . . help me." Perhaps it was
inseparable from his youth, with its buoyancy and self-satisfaction,
and his training in a college whose members only knew by rumour of the
existence of other places of theological learning, that Carmichael had
at that moment a pleasing sense of humility and charity. Had it been a
matter of scholastic lore, of course neither he nor more than six men
in Scotland could have met the Rabbi in the gate. With regard to
modern thought, Carmichael knew that the good Rabbi had not read _Ecce
Homo_, and was hardly, well . . . up to date. He would not for the
world hint such a thing to the dear old man, nor even argue with him;
but it was flattering to remember that the attack could be merely one
of blunderbusses, in which the modern thinker would at last intervene
and save the ancient scholar from humiliation.
"Well, Rabbi?" and Carmichael tried to make it easy.
"Before I say what is on my heart, John, you will grant an old man who
loves you one favour. So far as in you lies you will bear with me if
that which I have to say, and still more that which my conscience will
compel me to do, is hard to flesh and blood."
"Did n't we settle that last night in the vestry?" and Carmichael was
impatient; "is it that you do not agree with the doctrine of the Divine
Fatherhood? We younger men are resolved to base Christian doctrine on
the actual Scriptures, and to ignore mere tradition."
"An excellent rule, my dear friend," cried the Rabbi, wonderfully
quickened by the challenge, "and with your permission and for our
mutual edification we shall briefly review all passages bearing on the
subject in hand--using the original, as will doubtless be your wish,
and you correcting my poor recollection."
About an hour afterwards, and when the Rabbi was only entering into the
heart of the matter, Carmichael made the bitter discovery--without the
Rabbi having even hinted at such a thing--that his pet sermon was a
mass of boyish crudities, and this reverse of circumstances was some
excuse for his pettishness.
"It does not seem to me that it is worth our time to haggle about the
usage of Greek words or to count texts: I ground my position on the
general meaning of the Gospels and the sense of things," and Carmichael
stood on the hearthrug in a very superior attitude.
"Let that pass then, John, and forgive me if I appeared to battle about
words, as certain scholars of the olden time were fain to do, for in
truth it is rather about the hard duty before me than any imperfection
in your teaching I would speak," and the Rabbi glanced nervously at the
young minister.
"We are both Presbyters of Christ's Church, ordained after the order of
primitive times, and there are laid on us certain heavy charges and
responsibilities from which we may not shrink, as we shall answer to
the Lord at the great day."
Carmichael's humiliation was lost in perplexity, and he sat down,
wondering what the Rabbi intended.
"If any Presbyter should see his brother fall into one of those faults
of private life that do beset us all in our present weakness, then he
doth well and kindly to point it out unto his brother; and if his
brother should depart from the faith as they talk together by the way,
then it is a Presbyter's part to convince him of his error and restore
him."
The Rabbi cast an imploring glance, but Carmichael had still no
understanding.
"But if one Presbyter should teach heresy to his flock in the hearing
of another . . . even though it break the other's heart, is not the
path of duty fenced up on either side, verily a straight, narrow way,
and hard for the feet to tread?"
"You have spoken to me, Rabbi, and . . . cleared yourself"--Carmichael
was still somewhat sore--"and I 'll promise not to offend you again in
an action sermon."
"Albeit you intend it not so, yet are you making it harder for me to
speak. . . . See you not . . . that I . . . that necessity is laid on
me to declare this matter to my brother Presbyters in court
assembled . . . but not in hearing of the people?" Then there was a
stillness in the room, and the Rabbi, although he had closed his eyes,
was conscious of the amazement on the young man's face.
"Do you mean to say," speaking very slowly, as one taken utterly aback,
"that our Rabbi would come to my . . . to the Sacrament and hear me
preach, and . . . report me for heresy to the Presbytery? Rabbi, I
know we don't agree about some things, and perhaps I was a little . . .
annoyed a few minutes ago because you . . . know far more than I do,
but that is nothing. For you to prosecute one of your boys and be the
witness yourself. . . . Rabbi, you can't mean it. . . . Say it's a
mistake."
The old man only gave a deep sigh.
"If it were Dowbiggin or . . . any man except you, I would n't care one
straw, rather enjoy the debate, but you whom we have loved and looked
up to and boasted about, why, it's like . . . a father turning against
his sons."
The Rabbi made no sign.
"You live too much alone, Rabbi," and Carmichael began again as the
sense of the tragedy grew on him, "and nurse your conscience till it
gets over tender; no other man would dream of . . . prosecuting a . . .
fellow minister in such circumstances. You have spoken to me like a
father, surely that is enough," and in his honest heat the young fellow
knelt down by the Rabbi's chair and took his hand.
A tear rolled down the Rabbi's cheek, and he looked fondly at the lad.
"Your words pierce me as sharp swords, John; spare me, for I can do
none otherwise; all night I wrestled for release, but in vain."
Carmichael had a sudden revulsion of feeling, such as befalls emotional
and ill-disciplined natures when they are disappointed and mortified.
"Very good, Doctor Saunderson"--Carmichael rose awkwardly and stood on
the hearthrug again, an elbow on the mantelpiece--"you must do as you
please and as you think right. I am sorry that I . . . pressed you so
far, but it was on grounds of our . . . friendship.
"Perhaps you will tell me as soon as you can what you propose to do,
and when you will bring . . . this matter before the Presbytery. My
sermon was fully written and . . . is at your disposal."
While this cold rain beat on the Rabbi's head he moved not, but at its
close he looked at Carmichael with the appeal of a dumb animal in his
eyes.
"The first meeting of Presbytery is on Monday, but you would no doubt
consider that too soon; is there anything about dates in the order of
procedure for heresy?" and Carmichael made as though he would go over
to the shelves for a law book.
"John," cried the Rabbi--his voice full of tears--rising and following
the foolish lad, "is this all you have in your heart to say unto me?
Surely, as I stand before you, it is not my desire to do such a thing,
for I would rather cut off my right hand.
"God hath not been pleased to give me many friends, and He only knows
how you and the others have comforted my heart. I lie not, John, but
speak the truth, that there is nothing unto life itself I would not
give for your good, who have been as the apple of my eye unto me."
Carmichael hardened himself, torn between a savage sense of
satisfaction that the Rabbi was suffering for his foolishness and the
inclination of his better self to respond to the old man's love.
"If there be a breach between us, it will not be for you as it must be
for me. You have many friends, and may God add unto them good men and
faithful, but I shall lose my one earthly joy and consolation, when
your feet are no longer heard on my threshold and your face no longer
brings light to my room. And, John, even this thing which I am
constrained to do is yet of love, as . . . you shall confess one day."
Carmichael's pride alone resisted, and it was melting fast. Had he
even looked at the dear face, he must have given way, but he kept his
shoulder to the Rabbi, and at that moment the sound of wheels passing
the corner of the manse gave him an ungracious way of escape.
"That is Burnbrae's dog-cart . . . Doctor Saunderson, and I think he
will not wish to keep his horse standing in the snow, so unless you
will stay all night, as it's going to drift. . . . Then perhaps it
would be better. . . . Can I assist you in packing?" How formal it
all sounded, and he allowed the Rabbi to go upstairs alone, with the
result that various things of the old man's are in Carmichael's house
unto this day.
Another chance was given the lad when the Rabbi would have bidden him
good-bye at the door, beseeching that he should not come out into the
drift, and still another when Burnbrae, being concerned about his
passenger's appearance, who seemed ill-fitted to face a storm, wrapt
him in a plaid; and he had one more when the old man leant out of the
dog-cart and took Carmichael's hand in both of his, but only said, "God
bless you for all you 've been to me, and forgive me for all wherein I
have failed you." And they did not meet again till that
never-to-be-forgotten sederunt of the Free Kirk Presbytery of Muirtown,
when the minister of Kilbogie accused the minister of Drumtochty of
teaching the Linlathen heresy of the Fatherhood of God in a sermon
before the Sacrament.
Among all the institutions of the North a Presbytery is the most
characteristic, and affords a standing illustration of the
contradictions of a superbly logical people. It is so anti-clerical a
court that for every clergyman there must be a layman--country
ministers promising to bring in their elder for great occasions, and
instructing him audibly how to vote--and so fiercely clerical that if
the most pious and intelligent elder dared to administer a sacrament he
would be at once tried and censured for sacrilege. So careful is a
Presbytery to prevent the beginnings of Papacy that it insists upon
each of its members occupying the chair in turn, and dismisses him
again into private life as soon as he has mastered his duties, but so
imbued is it with the idea of authority that whatever decision may be
given by some lad of twenty-five in the chair--duly instructed,
however, by the clerk below--will be rigidly obeyed. When a Presbytery
has nothing else to do, it dearly loves to pass a general condemnation
on sacerdotalism, in which the tyranny of prelates, and the foolishness
of vestments will be fully exposed, but a Presbytery wields a power at
which a bishop's hair would stand on end, and Doctor Dowbiggin once
made Carmichael leave the Communion Table and go into the vestry to put
on his bands.
When a Presbytery is in its lighter moods, it gives itself to points of
order with a skill and relish beyond the Southern imagination. It did
not matter how harmless, even infantile, might be the proposal placed
before the court by such a man as MacWheep of Pitscowrie, he has hardly
got past an apology for his presumption in venturing to speak at all,
before a member of Presbytery--who had reduced his congregation to an
irreducible minimum by the woodenness of his preaching--inquires
whether the speech of "our esteemed brother is not _ultra vires_" or
something else as awful. MacWheep at once sits down with the air of
one taken red-handed in arson, and the court debates the point till
every authority has taken his fill, when the clerk submits to the
Moderator, with a fine blend of deference and infallibility, that Mr.
MacWheep is perfectly within his rights; and then, as that estimable
person has, by this time, lost any thread he ever possessed, the
Presbytery passes to the next business--with the high spirit of men
returning from a holiday. Carmichael used, indeed, to relate how in a
great stress of business someone moved that the Presbytery should
adjourn for dinner, and the court argued for seventy minutes, with many
precedents, whether such a motion--touching as it did the standing
orders--could even be discussed, and with an unnecessary prodigality of
testimony he used to give perorations which improved with every telling.
The love of law diffused through the Presbytery became incarnate in the
clerk, who was one of the most finished specimens of his class in the
Scottish Kirk. His sedate appearance, bald, polished head, fringed
with pure white hair, shrewd face, with neatly cut side whiskers, his
suggestion of unerring accuracy and inexhaustible memory, his attitude
for exposition,--holding his glasses in his left hand and enforcing his
decision with the little finger of the right hand--carried conviction
even to the most disorderly. Ecclesiastical radicals, boiling over
with new schemes, and boasting to admiring circles of MacWheeps that
they would not be brow-beaten by red tape officials, became
ungrammatical before that firm gaze, and ended in abject surrender.
Self-contained and self-sufficing, the clerk took no part in debate,
save at critical moments to lay down the law, but wrote his minutes
unmoved through torrents of speech on every subject, from the
Sustentation Fund to the Union between England and Scotland, and even
under the picturesque eloquence of foreign deputies, whose names he
invariably requested should be handed to him, written legibly on a
sheet of paper. On two occasions only he ceased from writing: when Dr.
Dowbiggin discussed a method of procedure--then he watched him over his
spectacles in hope of a nice point; or when some enthusiastic brother
would urge the Presbytery to issue an injunction on the sin of Sabbath
walking--then the clerk would abandon his pen in visible despair, and
sitting sideways on his chair and supporting his head by that same
little finger, would face the Presbytery with an expression of reverent
curiosity on his face why the Almighty was pleased to create such a
man. His preaching was distinguished for orderliness, and was much
sought after for Fast days. It turned largely on the use of
prepositions and the scope of conjunctions, so that the clerk could
prove the doctrine of Vicarious Sacrifice from "for," and Retribution
from "as" in the Lord's prayer, emphasising and confirming everything
by that wonderful finger, which seemed to be designed by Providence for
delicate distinctions, just as another man's fist served for popular
declamation. His pulpit masterpiece was a lecture on the Council of
Jerusalem, in which its whole deliberations were reviewed by the rules
of the Free Kirk Book of Procedure, and a searching and edifying
discourse concluded with two lessons. First: That no ecclesiastical
body can conduct its proceedings without officials. Second: That such
men ought to be accepted as a special gift of Providence.
[Illustration: His attitude for exposition.]
The general opinion among good people was that the clerk's preaching
was rather for upbuilding than arousing, but it is still remembered by
the survivors of the old Presbytery that when MacWheep organised a
conference on "The state of religion in our congregations," and it was
meandering in strange directions, the clerk, who utilised such seasons
for the writing of letters, rose amid a keen revival of interest--it
was supposed that he had detected an irregularity in the
proceedings--and offered his contribution. "It did not become him to
boast," he said, "but he had seen marvellous things in his day: under
his unworthy ministry three beadles had been converted to
Christianity," and this experience was so final that the conference
immediately closed.
Times there were, however, when the Presbytery rose to its height, and
was invested with an undeniable spiritual dignity. Its members, taken
one by one, consisted of farmers, shepherds, tradesmen, and one or two
professional men, with some twenty ministers, only two or three of whom
were known beyond their parishes. Yet those men had no doubt that as
soon as they were constituted in the name of Christ, they held their
authority from the Son of God and Saviour of the world, and they bore
themselves in spiritual matters as His servants. No kindly feeling of
neighbourliness or any fear of man could hinder them from inquiring
into the religious condition of a parish or dealing faithfully with an
erring minister. They had power to ordain, and laid hands on the bent
head of some young probationer with much solemnity; they had also power
to take away the orders they had given, and he had been hardened indeed
beyond hope who could be present and not tremble when the Moderator,
standing in his place, with the Presbytery around, and speaking in the
name of the Head of the Church, deposed an unworthy brother from the
holy ministry. MacWheep was a "cratur," and much given to twaddle, but
when it was his duty once to rebuke a fellow-minister for quarrelling
with his people, he was delivered from himself, and spake with such
grave wisdom as he has never shown before or since.
When the Presbytery assembled to receive a statement from Doctor
Saunderson "_re_ error in doctrine by a brother Presbyter," even a
stranger might have noticed that its members were weighted with a sense
of responsibility, and although a discussion arose on the attempt of a
desultory member to introduce a deputy charged with the subject of the
lost ten tribes, yet it was promptly squelched by the clerk, who
intimated, with much gravity, that the court had met _in hunc
effectum_, viz. to hear Doctor Saunderson, and that the court could
not, in consistence with law, take up any other business, not
even--here Carmichael professed to detect a flicker of the clerkly
eyelids--the disappearance of the ten tribes.
It was the last time that the Rabbi ever spoke in public, and it is now
agreed that the deliverance was a fit memorial of the most learned
scholar that has been ever known in those parts. He began by showing
that Christian doctrine has taken various shapes, some more and some
less in accordance with the deposit of truth given by Christ and the
holy Apostles, and especially that the doctrine of Grace had been
differently conceived by two eminent theologians, Calvin and Arminius,
and his exposition was so lucid that the clerk gave it as his opinion
afterwards, that the two systems were understood by certain members of
the court for the first time that day. Afterwards the Rabbi vindicated
and glorified Calvinism from the Scriptures of the Old and New
Testament, from the Fathers, from the Reformation Divines, from the
later creeds, till the brain of the Presbytery reeled through the
wealth of allusion and quotation, all in the tongues of the learned.
Then he dealt with the theology of Mr. Erskine of Linlathen, and showed
how it was undermining the very foundations of Calvinism; yet the Rabbi
spake so tenderly of our Scottish Maurice that the Presbytery knew not
whether it ought to condemn Erskine as a heretic or love him as a
saint. Having thus brought the court face to face with the issues
involved, the Rabbi gave a sketch of a certain sermon he had heard
while assisting "a learned and much-beloved brother at the Sacrament,"
and Carmichael was amazed at the transfiguration of this very youthful
performance, which now figured as a profound and edifying discourse,
for whose excellent qualities the speaker had not adequate words. This
fine discourse was, however, to a certain degree marred, the Rabbi
suggested, by an unfortunate, although no doubt temporary, leaning to
the teaching of Mr. Erskine, whose beautiful piety, which was even to
himself in his worldliness and unprofitableness a salutary rebuke, had
exercised its just fascination upon his much more spiritual brother.
Finally the Rabbi left the matter in the hands of the Presbytery,
declaring that he had cleared his conscience, and that the minister was
one--here he was painfully overcome--dear to him as a son, and to whose
many labours and singular graces he could bear full testimony, the Rev.
John Carmichael, of Drumtochty. The Presbytery was slow and pedantic,
but was not insensible to a spiritual situation, and there was a murmur
of sympathy when the Rabbi sat down--much exhausted, and never having
allowed himself to look once at Carmichael.
Then arose a self-made man, who considered orthodoxy and capital to be
bound up together, and especially identified any departure from
sovereignty with that pestilent form of Socialism which demanded equal
chances for every man. He was only a plain layman, he said, and
perhaps he ought not to speak in the presence of so many reverend
gentlemen, but he was very grateful to Doctor Saunderson for his
honourable and straightforward conduct. It would be better for the
Church if there were more like him, and he would just like to ask Mr.
Carmichael one or two questions. Did he sign the Confession?--that was
one; and had he kept it?--that was two; and the last was, When did he
propose to go? He knew something about building contracts, and he had
heard of a penalty when a contract was broken. There was just one
thing more he would like to say--if there was less loose theology in
the pulpit there would be more money in the plate. The shame of the
Rabbi during this harangue was pitiable to behold.
Then a stalwart arose on the other side, and a young gentleman who had
just escaped from a college debating society wished to know what
century we were living in, warned the last speaker that the progress of
theological science would not be hindered by mercenary threats, advised
Doctor Saunderson to read a certain German, called Ritschl,--as if he
had been speaking to a babe in arms,--and was refreshing himself with a
Latin quotation, when the Rabbi, in utter absence of mind, corrected a
false quantity aloud.
"Moderator," the old man apologised in much confusion, "I wot not what
I did, and I pray my reverend brother, whose interesting and
instructive address I have interrupted by this unmannerliness, to grant
me his pardon, for my tongue simply obeyed my ear." Which untoward
incident brought the modern to an end, as by a stroke of ironical fate.
It seemed to the clerk that little good to any one concerned was to
come out of this debate, and he signalled to Doctor Dowbiggin, with
whom he had dined the night before, when they concocted a motion over
their wine. Whereupon that astute man explained to the court that he
did not desire to curtail the valuable discussion, from which he
personally had derived much profit, but he had ventured to draw up a
motion, simply for the guidance of the House--it was said by the
Rabbi's boys that the Doctor's success as an ecclesiastic was largely
due to the skilful use of such phrases--and then he read: "Whereas the
Church is set in all her courts for the defence of the truth, whereas
it is reported that various erroneous doctrines are being promulgated
in books and other public prints, whereas it has been stated that one
of the ministers of this Presbytery has used words that might be
supposed to give sanction to a certain view which appears to conflict
with statements contained in the standards of the Church, the
Presbytery of Muirtown declares first of all, its unshaken adherence to
the said standards; secondly, deplores the existence in any quarter of
notions contradictory or subversive of said standards; thirdly, thanks
Doctor Saunderson for the vigilance he has shown in the cause of sound
doctrine; fourthly, calls upon all ministers within the bounds to have
a care that they create no offence or misunderstanding by their
teaching, and finally enjoins all parties concerned to cultivate peace
and charity."
This motion was seconded by the clerk and carried
unanimously,--Carmichael being compelled to silence by the two wise men
for his own sake and theirs,--and was declared to be a conspicuous
victory both by the self-made man and the modern, which was another
tribute to the ecclesiastical gifts of Doctor Dowbiggin and the clerk
of the Presbytery of Muirtown.