CHAPTER X.

_FAREWELL SCENES._

The War Fever 303

Forced to the War Council 305

A Truce Among the Chiefs 306

Chiefs and People 308

The Kiss of Judas 309

The Death of Ian 309

The Quivering Knife 310

A War of Revenge 312

In the Thick of the Battle 313

Tender Mercies of the Wicked 315

Escape for Life 316

The Loss of All 317

Under the Tomahawk 318

Jehovah is Hearing 318

The Host Turned Back 320

The War Against Manuman 320

Traps Laid 321

House Broken Up 322

War Against Our Friends 322

A Treacherous Murderer 323

On the Chestnut Tree 324

Bargaining for Life 325

Five Hours in a Canoe 328

Kneeling on the Sands 329

Faimungo’s Farewell 330

“Follow! Follow!” 331

A Race for Life 332

Ringed Round with Death 334

Faint yet Pursuing 336

Out of the Lion’s Jaws 337

Brothers in Distress 339

Intervening Events 341

A Cannibal’s Taste 341

Pillars of Cloud and Fire 342

Passing by on the Other Side 344

Kapuku and the Idol Gods 344

A Devil Chief 344

“In Perils Oft” 345

Through Fire and Water 345

“Sail O! Sail O!” 349

“Let Me Die” 350

In Perils on the Sea 351

Tannese Visitors 352

The Devil Chief Again 353

Speckled and Spotted 354

Their Desired Haven 355

“I am Left Alone” 355

My Earthly All 356

Eternal Hope 356

Australia to the Rescue 357

For My Brethren’s Sake 358

A New Holy League 358

The Uses of Adversity 359

Arm-chair Critics Again 360

Concluding Note 361

Prospectus of Part Second 362

APPENDIX.

A. The Prayer of the Chiefs of Tanna 367

B. Notes on the New Hebrides 371

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PORTRAIT OF JOHN G. PATON _Frontispiece_.

“THE MAN THAT KILLS MISSI MUST FIRST KILL ME” _To face p._ 156

NATIVES STEALING PROPERTY „ 160

NATIVES RETURNING STOLEN PROPERTY „ 164

“THERE THEY LAY ME ON COCOA-NUT LEAVES ON THE GROUND” „ 172

“AT DAYBREAK I FOUND MY HOUSE SURROUNDED” „ 188

THE DANGEROUS LANDING THROUGH THE SURF „ 234

“SUDDENLY HE DREW A LARGE BUTCHER-LIKE KNIFE” „ 310

SPRINGING FORWARD HE CAUGHT THE CLUB „ 342

MAP OF THE NEW HEBRIDES „ 100

CHAPTER I.

_EARLIER DAYS._

Introductory Note.—Kirkmahoe.—Torthorwald Village.—Our

Villagers.—Nithsdale Scenes.—Our Cottage Home.—Our Forebears.—An

Idyll of the Heart.—A Consecrated Father.—Accepted Vows.—Happy

Sabbath Days.—Golden Autumn of Life.

What I write here is for the glory of God. For more than twenty years

have I been urged to record my story as a missionary of the Cross; but

always till now, in my sixty-fourth year, my heart has shrunk from the

task, as savouring too much of self. Latterly the conviction has been

borne home to me that if there be much in my experience which the Church

of God ought to know, it would be pride on my part, and not humility, to

let it die with me. I lift my pen, therefore, with that motive supreme

in my heart; and, so far as memory and entries in my note-books and

letters of my own and of other friends serve or help my sincere desire

to be truthful and fair, the following chapters will present a faithful

picture of the life through which the Lord has led me. If it bows any of

my readers under as deep and certain a confidence as mine, that in

“God’s hand our breath is, and His are all our ways,” my task will not

be fruitless in the Great Day.

On the 24th May, 1824, I was born in a cottage on the farm of Braehead,

in the parish of Kirkmahoe, near Dumfries, in the south of Scotland. My

father, James Paton, was a stocking manufacturer in a small way; and he

and his young wife, Janet Jardine Rogerson, lived on terms of warm

personal friendship with the “gentleman farmer,” so they gave me his

name, John _Gibson_; and the curly-haired child of the cottage was soon

able to toddle across to the mansion, and became a great pet of the lady

there. More than once, in my many journeyings, have I met with one or

another, in some way connected with that family, and heard little

incidents not needing to be repeated here, showing how beautiful and

tender and altogether human was the relationship in those days betwixt

the landlord and the cottars on his estate. On my last visit to

Scotland, sixty years after, I drove to Braehead in company with my

youngest brother James and my cousin David,—the latter born the same

week as I, and the former nearly twenty years my junior; and we found no

cottage, nor trace of a cottage, but amused ourselves by supposing that

we could discover by the rising of the grassy mound, the outline where

the foundations once had been! Of ten thousand homes in Scotland, once

sweet and beautiful, each a little possible Paradise in its own

well-cultivated plot, this is true to-day; and where are the healthy,

happy peasant boys and girls that such homes bred and reared? They are

sweltering and struggling for existence in our towns and cities. I am

told that this must be—that it is all the result of economic laws; but I

confess to a deepening conviction that it need not be, and that the loss

to the nation as a whole is vital, if not irreparable.

While yet a mere child, five years or so of age, my parents took me to a

new home in the ancient village of Torthorwald, about four and a quarter

miles north from Dumfries, on the road to Lockerbie. At that time, about

1830, Torthorwald was a busy and thriving village, and comparatively

populous, with its cottars and crofters, large farmers and small

farmers, weavers and shoemakers, cloggers and coopers, blacksmiths and

tailors. Fifty-five years later, when I last visited the scenes of my

youth, the village proper was literally extinct, except for five

thatched cottages where the lingering patriarchs were permitted to die

slowly away,—when they too would be swept into the large farms, and

their garden plots ploughed over, like sixty or seventy others that had

been obliterated! Of course the Village Smithy still survives, but its

sparks are few and fading,—the great cultivators patronizing rather the

towns. The Meal Mill still grinds away,—but nothing like what it did

when every villager bought or cultivated his few acres of corn, and

every crofter and farmer in the parish sent all his grist to the mill.

The Grocer’s Shop still recalls the well-known name of Robert Henderson;

but so few are the mouths now to be fed, that his warm-hearted wife and

universal favourite, the very heroine of our village life, “Jean Grier,”

is retiring from it in disgust, and leaving it to her son-in-law,

declaring that “these Tory landlords and their big farms hae driven our

folks a’ awa’, and spoiled the Schule and the Shop, the Kirk and the

Mill.” And verily the School is robbed of its children, and the Parish

Church of its worshippers, when five families only are reared where

twenty once flourished! Political economy may curse me, if it will; but

I heard with grim satisfaction that this system of large farming, which

extinguishes our village homes, and sends our peasantry to rear their

children in lanes and alleys, in attics and cellars of populous towns,

was proving ruinous at length to the landlords and factors, who had in

many cases cruelly forced it on an unwilling people for mere selfish

gain.

The Villagers of my early days—the agricultural servants, or occasional

labourers, the tradesmen, the small farmers—were, generally speaking, a

very industrious and thoroughly independent race of people. Hard workers

they had to be, else they would starve; yet they were keen debaters on

all affairs both in Church and State, and sometimes in the “smiddy” or

the “kiln,” sometimes in a happy knot on the “village green,” or on the

road to the “kirk” or the “market,” the questions that were tearing the

mighty world beyond were fought over again by secluded peasants with

amazing passion and bright intelligence.

From the Bank Hill, close above our village, and accessible in a walk of

fifteen minutes, a view opens to the eye which, despite several easily

understood prejudices of mine that may discount any opinion that I

offer, still appears to me well worth seeing amongst all the beauties of

Scotland. At your feet lay a thriving village, every cottage sitting in

its own plot of garden, and sending up its blue cloud of “peat reek,”

which never somehow seemed to pollute the blessed air; and after all has

been said or sung, a beautifully situated village of healthy and happy

homes for God’s children is surely the finest feature in every

landscape! There nestled the Manse amongst its ancient trees, sometimes

wisely, sometimes foolishly tenanted, but still the “man’s house,” the

man of God’s house, when such can be found for it. There, close by, the

Parish School, where rich and poor met together on equal terms, as God’s

children; and we learned that brains and character make the only

aristocracy worth mentioning. Yonder, amid its graves, that date back on

crumbling stone five hundred years, stands the Village Church; and

there, on its little natural hill, at the end of the village, rises the

old tower of Torthorwald, frowning over all the far-sweeping valley of

the Nith, and telling of days of blood and Border foray. It was one of

the many castles of the Kirkpatricks, and its enormous and imperishable

walls seem worthy of him who wrote the legend of his family in the blood

of the Red Comyn, stabbed in the Greyfriars Church of Dumfries, when he

smote an extra blow to that of Bruce, and cried, “I mak’ siccar.”

Beyond, betwixt you and the Nith, crawls the slow-creeping Lochar

towards the Solway, through miles and miles of moss and heather,—the

nearest realization that I ever beheld of a “stagnant stream.” Looking

from the Bank Hill on a summer day, Dumfries with its spires shone so

conspicuous that you could have believed it not more than two miles

away; the splendid sweeping vale through which Nith rolls to Solway, lay

all before the naked eye, beautiful with village spires, mansion houses,

and white shining farms; the Galloway hills, gloomy and far-tumbling,

bounded the forward view, while to the left rose Criffel, cloud-capped

and majestic; then the white sands of Solway, with tides swifter than

horsemen; and finally the eye rested joyfully upon the hills of

Cumberland, and noticed with glee the blue curling smoke from its

villages on the southern Solway shores. Four miles behind you lie the

ruins of the Castle of the Bruce, within the domains of his own Royal

Burgh of Lochmaben; a few miles in front, the still beautiful and

amazing remains of Caerlaverock Castle, famous in many a Border story;

all around you, scattered throughout the dale of Nith, memories or ruins

of other baronial “keeps,” rich in suggestion to the peasant fancy!

Traditions lost nothing in bulk, or in graphic force, as they were

retold for the thousandth time by village patriarchs around the kindly

peat fire, with the younger rustics gaping round. A high spirit of

patriotism, and a certain glorious delight in daring enterprises, was

part of our common heritage.

There, amid this wholesome and breezy village life, our dear parents

found their home for the long period of forty years. There were born to

them eight additional children, making in all a family of five sons and

six daughters. Theirs was the first of the thatched cottages on the

left, past the “miller’s house,” going up the “village gate,” with a

small garden in front of it, and a large garden across the road; and it

is one of the few still lingering to show to a new generation what the

homes of their fathers were. The architect who planned it had no ideas

of art, but a fine eye for durability! It consists at present of three,

but originally of four, pairs of “oak couples” (Scotticé _kipples_),

planted like solid trees in the ground at equal intervals, and gently

sloped inwards till they meet or are “coupled” at the ridge, this

coupling being managed not by rusty iron, but by great solid pins of

oak. A roof of oaken wattles was laid across these, till within eleven

or twelve feet of the ground, and from the ground upwards a stone wall

was raised, as perpendicular as was found practicable, towards these

overhanging wattles, this wall being roughly “pointed” with sand and

clay and lime. Now into and upon the roof was woven and intertwisted a

covering of thatch, that defied all winds and weathers, and that made

the cottage marvellously cozy,—being renewed year by year, and never

allowed to remain in disrepair at any season. But the beauty of the

construction was and is its durability, or rather the permanence of its

oaken ribs! There they stand, after probably not less than four

centuries, japanned with “peat reek” till they are literally shining, so

hard that no ordinary nail can be driven into them, and perfectly

capable for service for four centuries more on the same conditions. The

walls are quite modern, having all been rebuilt in my father’s time,

except only the few great foundation boulders, piled around the oaken

couples; and parts of the roofing also may plead guilty to having found

its way thither only in recent days; but the architect’s one idea

survives, baffling time and change—the ribs and rafters of oak.

Our home consisted of a “but” and a “ben” and a “mid room,” or chamber,

called the “closet.” The one end was my mother’s domain, and served all

the purposes of dining-room and kitchen and parlour, besides containing

two large wooden erections, called by our Scotch peasantry “box-beds”;

not holes in the wall, as in cities, but grand, big, airy beds, adorned

with many-coloured counterpanes, and hung with natty curtains, showing

the skill of the mistress of the house. The other end was my father’s

workshop, filled with five or six “stocking frames,” whirring with the

constant action of five or six pairs of busy hands and feet, and

producing right genuine hosiery for the merchants at Hawick and

Dumfries. The “closet” was a very small apartment betwixt the other two,

having room only for a bed, a little table, and a chair, with a

diminutive window shedding diminutive light on the scene. This was the

Sanctuary of that cottage home. Thither daily, and oftentimes a day,

generally after each meal, we saw our father retire, and “shut to the

door”; and we children got to understand by a sort of spiritual instinct

(for the thing was too sacred to be talked about) that prayers were

being poured out there for us, as of old by the High Priest within the

veil in the Most Holy Place. We occasionally heard the pathetic echoes

of a trembling voice pleading as if for life, and we learned to slip out

and in past that door on tiptoe, not to disturb the holy colloquy. The

outside world might not know, but we knew, whence came that happy light

as of a new-born smile that always was dawning on my father’s face: it

was a reflection from the Divine Presence, in the consciousness of which

he lived. Never, in temple or cathedral, on mountain or in glen, can I

hope to feel that the Lord God is more near, more visibly walking and

talking with men, than under that humble cottage roof of thatch and

oaken wattles. Though everything else in religion were by some

unthinkable catastrophe to be swept out of memory, or blotted from my

understanding, my soul would wander back to those early scenes, and shut

itself up once again in that Sanctuary Closet, and, hearing still the

echoes of those cries to God, would hurl back all doubt with the

victorious appeal, “He walked with God, why may not I?”

A few notes had better here be given as to our “Forebears,” the kind of

stock from which my father and mother sprang. My father’s mother, Janet

Murray, claimed to be descended from a Galloway family that fought and

suffered for Christ’s Crown and Covenant in Scotland’s “killing time,”

and was herself a woman of a pronouncedly religious development. Her

husband, our grandfather, William Paton, had passed through a roving and

romantic career, before he settled down to a douce deacon of the weavers

of Dumfries, like his father before him.

Forced by a press-gang to serve on board a British man-of-war, he was

taken prisoner by the French, and thereafter placed under Paul Jones,

the pirate of the seas, and bore to his dying day the mark of a slash

from the captain’s sword across his shoulder for some slight disrespect

or offence. Determining with two others to escape, the three were hotly

pursued by Paul Jones’s men. One, who could swim but little, was shot,

and had to be cut adrift by the other two, who in the darkness swam into

a cave and managed to evade for two nights and a day the rage of their

pursuers. My grandfather, being young and gentle and yellow-haired,

persuaded some kind heart to rig him out in female attire, and in this

costume escaped the attentions of the press-gang more than once; till,

after many hardships, he bargained with the captain of a coal sloop to

stow him away amongst his black diamonds, and thus, in due time, he

found his way home to Dumfries, where he tackled bravely and wisely the

duties of husband, father, and citizen for the remainder of his days.

The smack of the sea about the stories of his youth gave zest to the

talks round their quiet fireside, and that, again, was seasoned by the

warm evangelical spirit of his Covenanting wife, her lips “dropping

grace.”

Of their children, two reproduced the disposition of their father, and

two that of their mother. William took to the soldier’s career, and died

in Spain; May, the only daughter, gave her heart and hand to John Wood,

a jolly and gallant Englishman, who fought at Waterloo, and lived to see

his hundredth birthday. John and James, the latter being my father, both

learned the stocking manufacturing business of their fathers, and both

followed their mother’s piety and became from their early teens very

pronounced and consistent disciples of the Lord.

On the other side, my mother, Janet Rogerson, had for parents a father

and mother of the Annandale stock. William Rogerson, her father, was one

of many brothers, all men of uncommon strength and great force of

character, quite worthy of the Border rievers of an earlier day. Indeed,

it was in some such way that he secured his wife, though the dear old

lady in after-days was chary about telling the story. She was a girl of

good position, the ward of two unscrupulous uncles who had charge of her

small estate, near Langholm; and while attending some boarding school

she fell devotedly in love with the tall, fair-haired, gallant young

blacksmith, William Rogerson. Her guardians, doubtless very properly,

objected to the “connection”; but our young Lochinvar, with his six or

seven stalwart brothers and other trusty “lads,” all mounted, and with

some ready tool in case of need, went boldly and claimed his bride, and

she, willingly mounting at his side, was borne off in the light of open

day, joyously married, and took possession of her “but and ben,” as the

mistress of the blacksmith’s abode.

The uncles had it out with him, however, in another way. While he was

enjoying his honeymoon, and careless of mere mundane affairs, they

managed to dispose of all the property of their ward, and make good

their escape with the proceeds to the New World. Having heard a rumour

of some such sale, our young blacksmith on horseback just reached the

scene in time to see the last article—a Family Bible—put up for auction.

This he claimed, or purchased, or seized, in name of the heiress—but

that was all that she ever inherited. It was used devoutly by her till

her dying day, and was adorned with the record of her own marriage and

of the birth of a large and happy family, whom by-and-by God gave to

her.

Janet Jardine bowed her neck to the self-chosen yoke, with the light of

a supreme affection in her heart, and showed in her gentler ways, her

love of books, her fine accomplishments with the needle and her general

air of ladyhood, that her lot had once been cast in easier, but not

necessarily happier, ways. Her blacksmith lover proved not unworthy of

his lady bride, and in her old days found a quiet and modest home, the

fruit of years of toil and hopeful thrift, their own little property, in

which they rested and waited a happy end. Amongst those who at last wept

by her grave stood, amidst many sons and daughters, her son the Rev.

James J. Rogerson, clergyman of the Church of England, who, for many

years thereafter, and till quite recently, was spared to occupy a

distinguished position at ancient Shrewsbury, and has left behind him

there an honoured and beloved name.

One thing else, beautiful in its pathos, I must record of that dear old

lady. Her son, Walter, had gone forth from her, in prosecution of his

calling, had corresponded with her from various counties in England, and

then had suddenly disappeared; and no sign came to her, whether he was

dead or alive. The mother-heart in her clung to the hope of his return;

every night she prayed for that happy event, and before closing the

door, threw it wide open, and peered into the darkness with a cry, “Come

hame, my boy Walter, your mither wearies sair;” and every morning, at

early break of day, for a period of more than twenty years, she toddled

up from her cottage door, at Johnsfield, Lockerbie, to a little round

hill, called the “Corbie Dykes,” and, gazing with tear-filled eyes

towards the south for the form of her returning boy, prayed the Lord God

to keep him safe and restore him to her yet again. Always, as I think

upon that scene, my heart finds consolation in reflecting that if not

here, then for certain _there_, such deathless longing love will be

rewarded, and, rushing into long-delayed embrace, will exclaim, “Was

lost and is found.”

From such a home came our mother, Janet Jardine Rogerson, a

bright-hearted, high-spirited, patient-toiling, and altogether heroic

little woman; who, for about forty-three years, made and kept such a

wholesome, independent, God-fearing, and self-reliant life for her

family of five sons and six daughters, as constrains me, when I look

back on it now, in the light of all I have since seen and known of

others far differently situated, almost to worship her memory. She had

gone with her high spirits and breezy disposition to gladden, as their

companion, the quiet abode of some grand or great-grand-uncle and aunt,

familiarly named in all that Dalswinton neighbourhood, “Old Adam and

Eve.” Their house was on the outskirts of the moor, and life for the

young girl there had not probably too much excitement. But one thing had

arrested her attention. She had noticed that a young stocking maker from

the “Brig End,” James Paton, the son of William and Janet there, was in

the habit of stealing alone into the quiet wood, book in hand, day after

day, at certain hours, as if for private study and meditation. It was a

very excusable curiosity that led the young bright heart of the girl to

watch him devoutly reading and hear him reverently reciting (though she

knew not then, it was Ralph Erskine’s “Gospel Sonnets,” which he could

say by heart sixty years afterwards, as he lay on his bed of death); and

finally that curiosity awed itself into a holy respect, when she saw him

lay aside his broad Scotch bonnet, kneel down under the sheltering wings

of some tree, and pour out all his soul in daily prayers to God. As yet

they had never spoken. What spirit moved her, let lovers tell—was it all

devotion, or was it a touch of unconscious love kindling in her towards

the yellow-haired and thoughtful youth? Or was there a stroke of

mischief, of that teasing, which so often opens up the door to the most

serious step in all our lives? Anyhow, one day she slipped in quietly,

stole away his bonnet, and hung it on a branch near by, while his trance

of devotion made him oblivious of all around; then, from a safe retreat

she watched and enjoyed his perplexity in seeking for and finding it! A

second day this was repeated; but his manifest disturbance of mind, and

his long pondering with the bonnet in hand, as if almost alarmed, seemed

to touch another chord in her heart—that chord of pity which is so often

the prelude of love, that finer pity that grieves to wound anything

nobler or tenderer than ourselves. Next day, when he came to his

accustomed place of prayer, a little card was pinned against the tree

just where he knelt, and on it these words:—

“She who stole away your bonnet is ashamed of what she did; she has a

great respect for you, and asks you to pray for her, that she may become

as good a Christian as you.”

Staring long at that writing, he forgot Ralph Erskine for one day;

taking down the card, and wondering who the writer could be, he was

abusing himself for his stupidity in not suspecting that some one had

discovered his retreat, and removed his bonnet, instead of wondering

whether angels had been there during his prayer,—when, suddenly raising

his eyes, he saw in front of old Adam’s cottage, through a lane amongst

the trees, the passing of another kind of angel, swinging a milk-pail in

her hand and merrily singing some snatch of old Scottish song. He knew,

in that moment, by a Divine instinct, as infallible as any voice that

ever came to seer of old, that she was the angel visitor that had stolen

in upon his retreat—that bright-faced, clever-witted niece of old Adam

and Eve, to whom he had never yet spoken, but whose praises he had often

heard said and sung—“Wee Jen.” I am afraid he did pray “for her,” in

more senses than one, that afternoon; at any rate, more than a Scotch

bonnet was very effectually stolen; a good heart and true was there

bestowed, and the trust was never regretted on either side, and never

betrayed.

Often and often, in the genial and beautiful hours of the autumntide of

their long life, have I heard my dear father tease “Jen” about her

maidenly intentions in the stealing of that bonnet; and often with quick

mother wit have heard her happy retort, that had his motives for coming

to that retreat been altogether and exclusively pious, he would probably

have found his way to the other side of the wood, but that men who

prowled about the Garden of Eden ran the risk of meeting some day with a

daughter of Eve!

Somewhere in or about his seventeenth year, my father passed through a

crisis of religious experience, and from that day he openly and very

decidedly followed the Lord Jesus. His parents had belonged to one of

the older branches of what now we call the United Presbyterian Church;

but my father, having made an independent study of the Scotch Worthies,

the Cloud of Witnesses, the Testimonies, and the Confession of Faith,

resolved to cast in his lot with the oldest of all the Scotch Churches,

the Reformed Presbyterian, as most nearly representing the Covenanters

and the attainments of both the first and second Reformations in

Scotland. This choice he deliberately made, and sincerely and

intelligently adhered to; and was able at all times to give strong and

clear reasons from Bible and from history for the principles he upheld.

Still his sympathies and votes always went with the more progressive

party in that ancient Church. He held it to be right that Cameronians,

like other citizens, should exercise the municipal and political

franchise, and he adhered to the “Majority Synod,” which has since been

incorporated with the Free Church of Scotland. While glorying in the

Psalms, he rejoiced to sing other hymns and spiritual songs (thanks to

Ralph Erskine’s “Sonnets,” perhaps, for that!) from his earliest days,

at least everywhere except in the ordinary Public Worship; and long

before he died, though he still held the Psalms to be supreme, he had

learned to hear with glowing delight vast congregations singing the

hymns of modern days, had learned joyfully to join in these songs of

Zion, and was heard often to confess his belief that God had greatly

owned and blessed the ministry of song in the service of the Gospel.

Besides his independent choice of a Church for himself, there was one

other mark and fruit of his early religious decision, which looks even

fairer through all these years. Family Worship had heretofore been held

only on Sabbath day in his father’s house; but the young Christian,

entering into conference with his sympathising mother, managed to get

the household persuaded that there ought to be daily morning and evening

prayer and reading of the Bible and holy singing. This the more readily,

as he himself agreed to take part regularly in the same and so relieve

the old warrior of what might have proved for him too arduous spiritual

toils. And so began in his seventeenth year that blessed custom of

Family Prayer, morning and evening, which my father practised probably

without one single omission till he lay on his deathbed, seventy-seven

years of age; when, even to the last day of his life, a portion of

Scripture was read, and his voice was heard softly joining in the Psalm,

and his lips breathed the morning and evening Prayer,—falling in sweet

benediction on the heads of all his children, far away many of them over

all the earth, but all meeting him there at the Throne of Grace. None of

us can remember that any day ever passed unhallowed thus; no hurry for

market, no rush to business, no arrival of friends or guests, no trouble

or sorrow, no joy or excitement, ever prevented at least our kneeling

around the family altar, while the High Priest led our prayers to God,

and offered himself and his children there. And blessed to others, as

well as to ourselves, was the light of such example! I have heard that,

in long after years, the worst woman in the village of Torthorwald, then

leading an immoral life, but since changed by the grace of God, was

known to declare, that the only thing that kept her from despair and

from the hell of the suicide, was when in the dark winter nights she

crept close up underneath my father’s window, and heard him pleading in

family worship that God would convert “the sinner from the error of

wicked ways and polish him as a jewel for the Redeemer’s crown.” “I

felt,” said she, “that I was a burden on that good man’s heart, and I

knew that God would not disappoint _him_. That thought kept me out of

Hell, and at last led me to the only Saviour.”

My father had a strong desire to be a minister of the Gospel; but when

he finally saw that God’s will had marked out for him another lot, he

reconciled himself by entering with his own soul into this solemn

vow,—that if God gave him sons, he would consecrate them unreservedly to

the ministry of Christ, if the Lord saw fit to accept the offering, and

open up their way. It may be enough here to say that he lived to see

three of us entering upon and not unblessed in the Holy Office;—myself,

the eldest born; my brother Walter, several years my junior; and my

brother James, the youngest of eleven, the Benjamin of the flock.

Our place of worship was the Reformed Presbyterian Church at Dumfries,

under the ministry, during most of these days, of Rev. John McDiarmid—a

genuine, solemn, lovable Covenanter, who cherished towards my father a

warm respect, that deepened into apostolic affection when the yellow

hair turned snow-white and both of them grew patriarchal in their years.

The minister, indeed, was translated to a Glasgow charge; but that

rather exalted than suspended their mutual love. Dumfries was four miles

fully from our Torthorwald home; but the tradition is that during all

these forty years my father was only thrice prevented from attending the

worship of God—once by snow so deep that he was baffled and had to

return; once by ice on the road, so dangerous that he was forced to

crawl back up the Roucan Brae on his hands and knees, after having

descended it so far with many falls; and once by the terrible outbreak

of cholera at Dumfries. All intercourse betwixt the town and the

surrounding villages was publicly prohibited; and the farmers and

villagers, suspecting that no cholera would make my father stay at home

on Sabbath, sent a deputation to my mother on the Saturday evening, and

urged her to restrain his devotions for once! That, however, was

needless; as, where the life of others was at stake, his very devotion

came to their aid. Each of us, from very early days, considered it no

penalty, but a great joy, to go with our father to the church; the four

miles were a treat to our young spirits, the company by the way was a

fresh incitement, and occasionally some of the wonders of city-life

rewarded our eager eyes. A few other pious men and women of the best

evangelical type, went from the same parish to one or other favourite

minister at Dumfries,—the parish church during all those years being

rather miserably served; and when these God-fearing peasants

“forgathered” in the way to or from the House of God, we youngsters had

sometimes rare glimpses of what Christian talk may be and ought to be.

They went to the church, full of beautiful expectancy of spirit—their

souls were on the outlook for God; they returned from the church, ready

and even anxious to exchange ideas as to what they had heard and

received of the things of life. I have to bear my testimony that

religion was presented to us with a great deal of intellectual

freshness, and that it did not repel us but kindled our spiritual

interest. The talks which we heard were, however, genuine; not the

make-believe of religious conversation, but the sincere outcome of their

own personalities. That, perhaps, makes all the difference betwixt talk

that attracts and talk that drives away.

We had, too, special Bible Readings on the Lord’s Day evening,—mother

and children and visitors reading in turns, with fresh and interesting

question, answer, and exposition, all tending to impress us with the

infinite grace of a God of love and mercy in the great gift of His dear

Son Jesus, our Saviour. The Shorter Catechism was gone through

regularly, each answering the question asked, till the whole had been

explained, and its foundation in Scripture shown by the proof-texts

adduced. It has been an amazing thing to me, occasionally to meet with

men who blamed this “catechizing” for giving them a distaste to

religion; every one in all our circle thinks and feels exactly the

opposite. It laid the solid rock-foundations of our religious life.

After years have given to these questions and their answers a deeper or

a modified meaning, but none of us have ever once even dreamed of

wishing that we had been otherwise trained. Of course, if the parents

are not devout, sincere, and affectionate,—if the whole affair on both

sides is taskwork, or worse, hypocritical and false,—results must be

very different indeed! Oh, I can remember those happy Sabbath evenings;

no blinds drawn, and shutters up, to keep out the sun from us, as some

scandalously affirm; but a holy, happy, entirely human day, for a

Christian father, mother, and children to spend. How my father would

parade across and across our flag-floor, telling over the substance of

the day’s sermons to our dear mother, who, because of the great distance

and because of her many living “encumbrances,” got very seldom indeed to

the church, but gladly embraced every chance, when there was prospect or

promise of a “lift” either way from some friendly gig! How he would

entice us to help him to recall some idea or other, rewarding us when we

got the length of “taking notes” and reading them over on our return;

how he would turn the talk ever so naturally to some Bible story, or

some martyr reminiscence, or some happy allusion to the “Pilgrim’s

Progress”! And then it was quite a contest, which of us would get

reading aloud, while all the rest listened, and father added here and

there a happy thought, or illustration, or anecdote. Others must write

and say what they will, and as they feel; but so must I. There were

eleven of us brought up in a home like that; and never one of the

eleven, boy or girl, man or woman, has been heard, or ever will be

heard, saying that Sabbath was dull or wearisome for us, or suggesting

that we have heard of or seen any way more likely than that for making

the Day of the Lord bright and blessed alike for parents and for

children. But God help the homes where these things are done by force

and not by love! The very discipline through which our father passed us

was a kind of religion in itself. If anything really serious required to

be punished, he retired first to his closet for prayer, and we boys got

to understand that he was laying the whole matter before God; and that

was the severest part of the punishment for me to bear! I could have

defied any amount of mere penalty, but this spoke to my conscience as a

message from God. We loved him all the more, when we saw how much it

cost him to punish us; and, in truth, he had never very much of that

kind of work to do upon any one of all the eleven—we were ruled by love

far more than by fear.

As I must, however, leave the story of my father’s life—much more

worthy, in many ways, of being written than my own—I may here mention

that his long and upright life made him a great favourite in all

religious circles far and near within the neighbourhood, that at

sick-beds and at funerals he was constantly sent for and much

appreciated, and that this appreciation greatly increased, instead of

diminishing, when years whitened his long, flowing locks and gave him an

apostolic beauty; till finally, for the last twelve years or so of his

life, he became by appointment a sort of Rural Missionary for the four

contiguous parishes, and spent his autumn in literally sowing the good

seed of the Kingdom as a Colporteur of the Tract and Book Society. His

success in this work, for a rural locality, was beyond all belief.

Within a radius of five miles, he was known in every home, welcomed by

the children, respected by the servants, longed for eagerly by the sick

and aged. He gloried in showing off the beautiful Bibles and other

precious books, which he sold in amazing numbers. He sang sweet Psalms

beside the sick, and prayed like the voice of God at their dying beds.

He went cheerily from farm to farm, from cot to cot; and when he wearied

on the moorland roads, he refreshed his soul by reciting aloud one of

Ralph Erskine’s “Sonnets,” or crooning to the birds one of David’s

Psalms. His happy partner, “Wee Jen,” died in 1865, and he himself in

1868, having reached his seventy-seventh year,—an altogether beautiful

and noble episode of human existence having been enacted, amid the

humblest surroundings of a Scottish peasant’s home, through the

influence of their united love by the grace of God; and in this world,

or in any world, all their children will rise up at mention of their

names and call them blessed!

CHAPTER II.

_AT SCHOOL AND COLLEGE._

A Typical Scottish School.—A School Prize.—A Wayward Master.—Learning

a Trade.—My Father’s Prayers.—Jehovah Jireh.—With Sappers and

Miners.—Harvest Field.—On the Road to Glasgow.—A Memorable

Parting.—Before the Examiners.—Killing Work.—Deep Waters.—Maryhill

School.—Rough School Scenes.—Aut Cæsar, Aut Nullus.—My Wages.

In my boyhood Torthorwald had one of the grand old typical Parish

Schools of Scotland, where the rich and the poor met together in perfect

equality, where Bible and Catechism were taught as zealously as grammar

and geography, and where capable lads from the humblest of cottages were

prepared in Latin and Mathematics and Greek to go straight from their

village class to the University bench. Besides, at that time, an

accomplished pedagogue of the name of Smith, a learned man of more than

local fame, had added a Boarding House to the ordinary School, and had

attracted some of the better class gentlemen and farmers’ sons from the

surrounding county, so that Torthorwald, under his _régime_, reached the

zenith of its educational fame. In this School I was initiated into the

mystery of letters, and all my brothers and sisters after me, though

some of them under other masters than mine;—my youngest brother James,

trained there under a master named Lithgow, going direct from the

Village School to the University of Glasgow in his fourteenth year!

My teacher punished severely—rather, I should say, savagely—especially

for lessons badly prepared. Yet, that he was in some respects kindly and

tender-hearted, I had the best of reasons to know. Seeing me not so

“braw” as the well-to-do fellows of my year, and taking a warm interest

in me as a pupil, he, concluding probably that new suits were not so

easily got in my home as in some of the rest, planned a happy and

kind-hearted surprise—a sort of unacknowledged school prize. One

evening, when my father was “taking the books,” and pouring out his

heart in family worship, the door of our house gently opened on the

latch, and gently closed again. After prayer, on rushing to the door, I

found a parcel containing a new suit of warm and excellent

clothes,—seeing which my mother said that “God had sent them to me, and

I should thankfully receive them as from His hand, whoever might have

brought them.” Appearing in them at school next morning, the teacher

cheerily saluted and complimented me on my “braws.” I innocently told

him how they came and what my mother said; and he laughingly replied,—

“John, whenever you need anything after this, just tell your father to

‘tak’ the Book,’ and God will send it in answer to prayer!”

Years passed by before I came to know, what the reader has already

guessed, that the good-hearted schoolmaster’s hand lifted the latch that

evening during my father’s prayer.

All his influence, however, was marred by occasional bursts of fierce

and ungovernable temper, amounting to savagery. His favouritism, too,

was sometimes disheartening,—as when I won a Latin prize for an exercise

by the verdict of the second master, yet it was withheld from me, and

prizes were bestowed without merit on other and especially wealthier

boys; so at least I imagined, and it cooled my ambition to excel.

Favouritism might be borne, but not mere brutality when passion mastered

him. Once, after having flogged me unjustly, on my return only at my

mother’s entreaty, he ran at me again, kicked me, and I fled in pain and

terror from his presence, rushing home. When his passion subsided, he

came to my parents, apologized, and pled with me to return; but all in

vain,—nothing would induce me to resume my studies there. Undoubtedly at

that time I had a great thirst for education, and a retentive memory,

which made all lessons comparatively easy; and, as no other school was

within my reach, it was a great loss that my heart shrank from this

teacher.

Though under twelve years of age, I started to learn my father’s trade

in which I made surprising progress. We wrought from six in the morning

till ten at night, with an hour at dinner-time and half an hour at

breakfast and again at supper. These spare moments every day I devoutly

spent on my books, chiefly in the rudiments of Latin and Greek; for I

had given my soul to God, and was resolved to aim at being a missionary

of the Cross, or a minister of the Gospel. Yet I gladly testify that

what I learned of the stocking frame was not thrown away; the facility

of using tools, and of watching and keeping the machinery in order, came

to be of great value to me in the Foreign Mission field.

How much my father’s prayers at this time impressed me I can never

explain, nor could any stranger understand. When, on his knees and all

of us kneeling around him in Family Worship, he poured out his whole

soul with tears for the conversion of the heathen world to the service

of Jesus, and for every personal and domestic need, we all felt as if in

the presence of the living Saviour, and learned to know and love Him as

our Divine Friend. As we rose from our knees, I used to look at the

light on my father’s face, and wish I were like him in spirit,—hoping

that, in answer to his prayers, I might be privileged and prepared to

carry the blessed Gospel to some portion of the heathen world.

One incident of this time I must record here, because of the lasting

impression made upon my religious life. Our family, like all others of

peasant rank in the land, were plunged into deep distress, and felt the

pinch severely, through the failure of the potato, the badness of other

crops, and the ransom-price of food. Our father had gone off with work

to Hawick, and would return next evening with money and supplies; but

meantime the meal barrel ran empty, and our dear mother, too proud and

too sensitive to let any one know, or to ask aid from any quarter,

coaxed us all to rest, assuring us that she had told God everything, and

that He would send us plenty in the morning. Next day, with the carrier

from Lockerbie came a present from her father, who, knowing nothing of

her circumstances or of this special trial, had been moved of God to

send at that particular nick of time a love-offering to his daughter,

such as they still send to each other in those kindly Scottish shires—a

bag of new potatoes, a stone of the first ground meal or flour, or the

earliest homemade cheese of the season—which largely supplied all our

need. My mother, seeing our surprise at such an answer to her prayers,

took us around her knees, thanked God for His goodness, and said to us,—

“O my children, love your heavenly Father, tell Him in faith and prayer

all your needs, and He will supply your wants so far as it shall be for

your good and His glory.”

Perhaps, amidst all their struggles in rearing a family of eleven, this

was the hardest time they ever had, and the only time they ever felt the

actual pinch of hunger; for the little that they had was marvellously

blessed of God, and was not less marvellously utilized by that noble

mother of ours, whose high spirit, side by side with her humble and

gracious piety, made us, under God, what we are to-day.

I saved as much at my trade as enabled me to go six weeks to Dumfries

Academy; this awoke in me again the hunger for learning, and I resolved

to give up that trade and turn to something that might be made helpful

to the prosecution of my education. An engagement was secured with the

sappers and miners, who were mapping and measuring the county of

Dumfries in connection with the Ordnance Survey of Scotland. The office

hours were from 9 a.m. till 4 p.m.; and though my walk from home was

above four miles every morning, and the same by return in the evening, I

found much spare time for private study, both on the way to and from my

work and also after hours. Instead of spending the mid-day hour with the

rest, at football and other games, I stole away to a quiet spot on the

banks of the Nith, and there pored over my book, all alone. Our

lieutenant, unknown to me, had observed this from his house on the other

side of the stream, and after a time called me into his office and

inquired what I was studying. I told him the whole truth as to my

position and my desires. After conferring with some of the other

officials there, he summoned me again, and in their presence promised me

promotion in the service, and special training in Woolwich at the

Government’s expense, on condition that I would sign an engagement for

seven years. Thanking him most gratefully for his kind offer, I agreed

to bind myself for three years or four, but not for seven.

Excitedly he said, “Why? Will you refuse an offer that many gentlemen’s

sons would be proud of?”

I said, “My life is given to another Master, so I cannot engage for

seven years.”

He asked sharply, “To whom?”

I replied, “To the Lord Jesus, and I want to prepare as soon as possible

for His service in the proclaiming of the Gospel.”

In great anger he sprang across the room, called the paymaster, and

exclaimed, “Accept my offer, or you are dismissed on the spot!”

I answered, “I am extremely sorry if you do so, but to bind myself for

seven years would probably frustrate the purpose of my life; and though

I am greatly obliged to you, I cannot make such an engagement.”

His anger made him unwilling or unable to comprehend my difficulty; the

drawing instruments were delivered up, I received my pay, and departed

without further parley. The men, both over me and beside me, were mostly

Roman Catholics, and their talk was the most profane I had ever heard.

Few of them spoke at any time without larding their language with oaths,

and I was thankful to get away from hearing their shocking speech. But

to me personally both officers and men had been extremely kind, for

which, on leaving, I thanked them all very cordially, and they looked

not a little surprised,—as if unused to such recognitions!

Hearing how I had been treated, and why, Mr. Maxwell, the Rector of

Dumfries Academy, offered to let me attend all classes there, free of

charge, so long as I cared to remain; but that, in lack of means of

support, was for the time impossible, as I would not and could not be a

burden on my dear father, but was determined rather to help him in

educating the rest. I went therefore to what was known as the Lamb Fair

at Lockerbie, and for the first time in my life took a “fee” for the

harvest. On arriving at the field when shearing and mowing began, the

farmer asked me to bind a sheaf; when I had done so, he lifted it by the

band, and it fell to pieces! Instead of disheartening me, however, he

gave me a careful lesson how to bind, and the second that I bound did

not collapse when shaken, and the third he pitched across the field, and

on finding that it still remained firm, he cried to me cheerily,—

“Right now, my lad; go ahead!”

It was hard work for me at first, and my hands got very sore; but, being

willing and determined, I soon got into the way of it, and kept up with

the best of them. The harvesters, seeing I was not one of their own

workers, had an eager dispute as to what I was, some holding that I was

a painter, and some a tailor; but the more ’cute observers denied me the

rank of tailor from the lack of “jaggings” on my thumb and finger, so I

suppose they credited me with the brush. The male harvesters were told

off to sleep in a large hay-loft, the beds being arranged all along the

side, like barracks. Many of the fellows were rough and boisterous, and

I suppose my look showed that I hesitated in mingling with them, for the

quick eye and kind heart of the farmer’s wife prompted her to suggest

that I, being so much younger than the rest, might sleep with her son

George in the house,—an offer, oh, how gratefully accepted! A beautiful

new steading had recently been built for them; and during certain days,

or portions of days, while waiting for the grain to ripen or to dry, I

planned and laid out an ornamental garden in front of it, which gave

great satisfaction—a taste inherited from my mother, with her joy in

flowers and garden plots. They gave me, on leaving, a handsome present,

as well as my fee, for I had got on very pleasantly with them all. This

experience, too, came to be valuable to me, when, in long after days,

and far other lands, Mission buildings had to be erected, and garden and

field cropped and cultivated without the aid of a single European hand.

Before going to my first harvesting, I had applied for a situation in

Glasgow, apparently exactly suited for my case; but I had little or no

hope of ever hearing of it further. An offer of £50 per annum was made

by the West Campbell Street Reformed Presbyterian Congregation, then

under the good and noble Dr. Bates, for a young man to act as district

visitor and tract distributor, especially amongst the absentees from the

Sabbath school; with the privilege of receiving one year’s training at

the Free Church Normal Seminary, that he might qualify himself for

teaching, and thereby push forward to the Holy Ministry. The candidates,

along with their application and certificates, were to send an essay on

some subject, of their own composition, and in their own handwriting. I

sent in two long poems on the Covenanters, which must have exceedingly

amused them, as I had not learned to write decent prose! But, much to my

surprise, immediately on the close of the harvesting experience, a

letter arrived, intimating that I, along with another young man, had

been put upon the short leet, and that both were requested to appear in

Glasgow on a given day and compete for the appointment. Two days

thereafter I started out from my quiet country home on the road to

Glasgow. Literally on the road, for from Torthorwald to Kilmarnock—about

forty miles—had to be done on foot, and thence to Glasgow by rail.

Railways in those days were as yet few, and coach travelling was far

beyond my purse. A small bundle, tied up in my pocket handkerchief,

contained my Bible and all my personal belongings. Thus was I launched

upon the ocean of life. “I know thy poverty, but thou art rich.”

My dear father walked with me the first six miles of the way. His

counsels and tears and heavenly conversation on that parting journey are

fresh in my heart as if it had been yesterday; and tears are on my

cheeks as freely now as then, whenever memory steals me away to the

scene. For the last half-mile or so we walked on together in almost

unbroken silence,—my father, as was often his custom, carrying hat in

hand, while his long, flowing yellow hair (then yellow, but in later

years white as snow) streamed like a girl’s down his shoulders. His lips

kept moving in silent prayers for me, and his tears fell fast when our

eyes met each other in looks for which all speech was vain. We halted on

reaching the appointed parting place; he grasped my hand firmly for a

minute in silence, and then solemnly and affectionately said,—

“God bless you, my son! Your father’s God prosper you, and keep you from

all evil!”

Unable to say more, his lips kept moving in silent prayer; in tears we

embraced, and parted. I ran off as fast as I could, and, when about to

turn a corner in the road where he would lose sight of me, I looked back

and saw him still standing with head uncovered where I had left him.

Waving my hat in adieu, I was round the corner and out of sight in an

instant. But my heart was too full and sore to carry me further, so I

darted into the side of the road and wept for a time. Then, rising up

cautiously, I climbed the dyke to see if he yet stood where I had left

him, and just at that moment I caught a glimpse of him climbing the dyke

and looking out for me! He did not see me, and after he had gazed

eagerly in my direction for a while, he got down, turned his face

towards home, and began to return—his head still uncovered, and his

heart, I felt sure, still rising in prayers for me. I watched through

blinding tears, till his form faded from my gaze; and then, hastening on

my way, vowed deeply and oft, by the help of God, to live and act so as

never to grieve or dishonour such a father and mother as He had given

me. The appearance of my father, when we parted,—his advice, prayers and

tears,—the road, the dyke, the climbing up on it and then walking away,

head uncovered, have often, often, all through life, risen vividly

before my mind,—and do so now while I am writing, as if it had been but

an hour ago. In my earlier years particularly, when exposed to many

temptations, his parting form rose before me as that of a guardian

Angel. It is no Pharisaism, but deep gratitude, which makes me here

testify that the memory of that scene not only helped, by God’s grace,

to keep me pure from the prevailing sins, but also stimulated me in all

my studies, that I might not fall short of his hopes, and in all my

Christian duties, that I might faithfully follow his shining example.

I reached Glasgow on the third day, having slept one night at Thornhill,

and another at New Cumnock; and having needed, owing to the kindness of

acquaintances upon whom I called by the way, to spend only three

half-pence of my modest funds. Safely arrived, but weary, I secured a

humble room for my lodging, for which I had to pay one shilling and

sixpence per week. Buoyant and full of hope and looking up to God for

guidance, I appeared at the appointed hour before the examiners, as did

also the other candidate; and they, having carefully gone through their

work, asked us to retire. When recalled, they informed us that they had

great difficulty in choosing, and suggested that the one of us might

withdraw in favour of the other, or that both might submit to a more

testing examination. Neither seemed inclined to give it up, both were

willing for a second examination, but the patrons made another

suggestion. They had only £50 per annum to give; but if we would agree

to divide it betwixt us, and go into one lodging, we might both be able

to struggle through; they would pay our entrance fees at the Free Normal

Seminary, and provide us with the books required; and perhaps they might

be able to add a little to the sum promised to each of us. By dividing

the mission work appointed, and each taking only the half, more time

also might be secured for our studies. Though the two candidates had

never seen each other before, we at once accepted this proposal, and got

on famously together, never having had a dispute on anything of common

interest throughout our whole career.

As our fellow-students at the Normal were all far advanced beyond us in

their education, we found it killing work, and had to grind away

incessantly, late and early. Both of us, before the year closed, broke

down in health, partly by hard study, but principally, perhaps, for lack

of nourishing diet. A severe cough seized upon me; I began spitting

blood, and a doctor ordered me at once home to the country and forbad

all attempts at study. My heart sank; it was a dreadful disappointment,

and to me a bitter trial. Soon after, my companion, though apparently

much stronger than I, was similarly seized. He, however, never entirely

recovered, though for some years he taught in a humble school; and long

ago he fell asleep in Jesus, a devoted and honoured Christian man.

I, on the other hand, after a short rest, nourished by the hill air of

Torthorwald and by the new milk of our family cow, was ere long at work

again, and got an appointment to teach a small school at Girvan. There I

received the greatest kindness from Rev. Matthew G. Easton of the

Reformed Presbyterian Church, now Dr. Easton of the Free Church, Darvel,

and gradually but completely recovered my health.

Having saved £10 by my teaching, I returned to Glasgow, and was enrolled

as a student at the College; but before the session was finished my

money was exhausted—I had lent some to a poor student who failed to

repay me—and only nine shillings remained in my purse. There was no one

from whom to borrow, had I been willing; I had been disappointed in

securing private tuition; and no course seemed open for me, except to

pay what little I owed, give up my College career, and seek for teaching

or other work in the country. I wrote a letter to my father and mother,

informing them of my circumstances; that I was leaving Glasgow in quest

of work, and that they would not hear from me again till I had found a

suitable situation. I told them that if otherwise unsuccessful, I should

fall back on my own trade, though I shrank from that as not tending to

advance my education; but that they might rest assured I would do

nothing to dishonour them or my Christian profession. Having read that

letter over again through many tears, I said,—I cannot send that, for it

will grieve my darling parents; and therefore, leaving it on the table,

I locked my room door and ran out to find a place where I might sell my

few precious books, and hold on a few weeks longer. But, as I stood on

the opposite side and wondered whether these folks in a shop with the

three golden balls would care to have a poor student’s books, and as I

hesitated, knowing how much I needed them for my studies, conscience

smote me for doing a guilty thing; I imagined that the people were

watching me as if I were about to commit a theft, and I made off from

the scene at full speed, with a feeling of intense shame at having

dreamed of such a thing! Passing through one short street into another,

I marched on mechanically; but the Lord God of my father was guiding my

steps, all unknown to me.

A certain notice in a window, into which I had probably never in my life

looked before, here caught my eye, to this effect—“Teacher wanted,

Maryhill Free Church School; apply at the Manse.” A coach or ’bus was

just passing, when I turned round; I leapt into it, saw the minister,

arranged to undertake the school, returned to Glasgow, paid my

landlady’s lodging score, tore up the letter to my parents and wrote

another full of cheer and hope, and early next morning entered the

school and began a tough and trying job. The minister warned me that the

school was a wreck, and had been broken up chiefly by coarse and bad

characters from mills and coal-pits, who attended the evening classes.

They had abused several masters in succession; and, laying a thick and

heavy cane on the desk, he said,—

“Use that freely, or you will never keep order here!”

I put it aside into the drawer of my desk, saying,—

“That will be my last resource.”

There were very few scholars for the first week—about eighteen in the

day school and twenty in the night school. The clerk of the mill, a good

young fellow, came to the evening classes, avowedly to learn

book-keeping, but privately he said he had come to save me from personal

injury.

The following week, a young man and a young woman began to attend the

night school, who showed from the first moment that they were bent on

mischief. By talking aloud, joking, telling stories, and laughing, they

stopped the work of the school. On my repeated appeals for quiet and

order, they became the more boisterous, and gave great merriment to a

few of the scholars present. I finally urged the young man, a tall,

powerful fellow, to be quiet or at once to leave, declaring that at all

hazards I must and would have perfect order; but he only mocked at me,

and assumed a fighting attitude. Quietly locking the door and putting

the key in my pocket, I turned to my desk, armed myself with the cane,

and dared any one at his peril to interfere betwixt us. It was a rough

struggle, he smashing at me clumsily with his fists, I with quick

movements evading and dealing him blow after blow with the heavy cane

for several rounds, till at length he crouched down at his desk,

exhausted and beaten, and I ordered him to turn to his book, which he

did in sulky silence. Going to my desk, I addressed them and asked them

to inform all who wished to come to the school, “that if they came for

education, everything would be heartily done that it was in my power to

do; but that any who wished for mischief had better stay away, as I was

determined to conquer, not to be conquered, and to secure order and

silence, whatever it might cost. Further, I assured them that that cane

would not again be lifted by me, if kindness and forbearance on my part

could possibly gain the day, as I wished to rule by love and not by

terror. But this young man knew he was in the wrong, and it was that

which had made him weak against me, though every way stronger far than

I. Yet I would be his friend and helper, if he was willing to be

friendly with me, the same as if this night had never been.”

A dead silence fell on the school; every one buried face diligently in

book; and the evening closed in uncommon quiet and order.

Next morning, two of the bigger boys at the day school, instead of

taking their seats like the rest, got in under the gallery where coals

and lumber were kept, and made a great noise as if dog and cat were

worrying each other. Pleading with them only increased the uproar; so I

locked the doors, laid past the keys, and proceeded with the morning’s

work. Half an hour before the mid-day rest, I began singing a hymn, and

marched the children round as if to leave; then the two young rascals

came out, and, walking in front, sang boisterously. Seizing the first by

the collar, I made him stagger into the middle of the floor, and

dragging the other beside him, I raised my heavy cane and dared them to

move. Ordering the children to resume their seats, I appointed them a

jury to hear the case and to pass sentence. The two were found guilty,

and awarded a severe lashing. I proposed, as this was their first

offence, and as I only used the cane for a last resource, to forego all

punishment, if they apologized and promised to be attentive and obedient

in the future. They both heartily did so, and became my favourite

scholars. Next evening I had little difficulty, as the worst characters

did not at once return, guessing that they had got a bit of lion in the

new dominie, that was more likely to subdue than to be subdued.

On the following day, the parents of some children, getting alarmed by

the rumours of these exploits, waited on me with the minister, and said

their children were terrified to come. I said that no _child_ had been

beaten by me, but that I insisted upon order and obedience; I reminded

the minister that of my immediate predecessors three had suffered from

these rowdies in the evening class—one actually going wrong in the mind

over the worry, another losing his health and dying, and the third

leaving in disgust; and finally I declared that I must either be master,

at whatever cost, or leave the school. From that time perfect order was

established, and the school flourished apace. During next week, many of

the worst characters returned to their class work in the evening; but

thenceforward the behaviour of all towards me was admirable. The

attendance grew, till the school became crowded, both during the day and

at night. During the mid-day hour even, I had a large class of young

women who came to improve themselves in writing and arithmetic.

By-and-by the cane became a forgotten implement; the sorrow and pain

which I showed as to badly done lessons, or anything blameworthy, proved

the far more effectual penalty.

The School Committee had promised me at least ten shillings per week,

and guaranteed to make up any deficit if the fees fell short of that

sum; but if the income from fees exceeded that sum, all was to be mine.

Affairs went on prosperously for a season; indeed, too much so for my

selfish interest. The committee, regarding the arrangement with me as

only temporary, took advantage of the larger attendance and better

repute of the school, to secure the services of a master of the highest

grade. The parents of many of the children, resenting this, offered to

take and seat a hall if I would remain and carry on an opposition

school; but, besides regarding this as scarcely fair to the committee,

however unhandsomely they had treated me, I knew too well that I had

neither education nor experience to compete with an accomplished

teacher, and so declined the proposal, though grateful for their kind

appreciation. Their children, however, got up a testimonial and

subscription, in token of their gratitude and esteem, which was

presented to me on the day before I left; and this I valued chiefly

because the presentation was made by the young fellows who at first

behaved so badly, but were now my warm friends.

Once more I committed my future to the Lord God of my father, assured

that in my very heart I was willing and anxious to serve Him and to

follow the blessed Saviour, yet feeling keenly that intense darkness had

once again enclosed my path.

CHAPTER III.

_IN GLASGOW CITY MISSION._

“He leadeth me.”—A Degraded District.—The Gospel in a Hay-Loft.—New

Mission Premises.—At Work for Jesus.—At War with Hell.—Sowing

Gospel Seeds.—Publicans on the War Path.—Marched to the Police

Office.—Papists and Infidels.—An Infidel Saved.—An Infidel in

Despair.—A Brand from the Burning.—A Saintly Child.—Papists in

Arms.—Elder and Student.

Before undertaking the Maryhill school, I had applied to be taken on as

an agent in the Glasgow City Mission; and the night before I had to

leave Maryhill, I received a letter from Rev. Thomas Caie, the

superintendent of the said Mission, saying that the directors had kept

their eyes on me ever since my application, and requesting, as they

understood I was leaving the school, that I would appear before them the

next morning, and have my qualifications for becoming a Missionary

examined into. Praising God, I went off at once, passed the examination

successfully, and was appointed to spend two hours that afternoon and

the following Monday in visitation with two of the directors, calling at

every house in a low district of the town, and conversing with all the

characters encountered there on their eternal welfare. I had also to

preach a “trial” discourse in a Mission meeting, where a deputation of

directors would be present, the following evening being Sunday; and on

Wednesday evening, they met again to hear their reports and to accept or

reject me. All this had come upon me so unexpectedly, that I almost

anticipated failure; but looking up for help I went through with it, and

on the fifth day after leaving the school they called me before a

meeting of directors, and informed me that I had passed my trials most

successfully, and that the reports were so favourable that they had

unanimously resolved to receive me at once as one of their City

Missionaries. It was further explained that one of their number, Matthew

Fairley, Esq., an elder in Dr. Symington’s congregation, had guaranteed

the half of my salary for two years, the other half to be met by the

resources of the Mission voluntarily contributed,—the whole salary at

that time amounting to £40 per annum. The district allocated to me was

one especially needful and trying, that had never been occupied, in and

around the Green Street of Calton, and I was enjoined to enter upon my

duties at once. After receiving many good and kind counsels from these

good and kind men, one of them in prayer very solemnly dedicated me and

my work to the Lord; and several of them were appointed to introduce me

to my district, taking a day each by turns, and to assist me in making

arrangements for the on-carrying of the work. Deeply solemnized with the

responsibilities of my new office, I left that meeting praising God for

all His undeserved mercies, and seeing most clearly His gracious hand in

all the way by which He had led me, and the trials by which He had

prepared me for the sphere of service. Man proposes—God disposes.

Most of these directors were men of God, adapted and qualified for this

special work, and very helpful in counsel as they went with me from day

to day, introducing me to my district, and seeing the character and

position of the people dwelling there. Looking back upon these Mission

experiences, I have ever felt that they were, to me and many others, a

good and profitable training of students for the office of the Ministry,

preparing us to deal with men of every shade of thought and of

character, and try to lead them to the knowledge and service of the Lord

Jesus. I found the district a very degraded one. Many families said they

had never been visited by any minister; and many were lapsed professors

of religion who had attended no church for ten, sixteen, or twenty

years, and said they had never been called upon by any minister, nor by

any Christian visitor. In it were congregated many avowed infidels,

Romanists, and drunkards,—living together, and associated for evil, but

apparently without any effective counteracting influence. In many of its

closes and courts sin and vice walked about openly—naked and _not_

ashamed.

We were expected to spend four hours daily in visiting from house to

house, holding small prayer meetings amongst those visited, calling them

together also in evening meetings, and trying by all means to do

whatever good was possible amongst them. The only place in the whole

district available for a Sabbath evening Evangelistic Service was a

hay-loft, under which a cow-feeder kept a large number of cows, and

which was reached by an outside rickety wooden stair. After nearly a

year’s hard work, I had only six or seven non-church-goers, who had been

led to attend regularly there, besides about the same number who met on

a week evening in the groundfloor of a house kindly granted for the

purpose by a poor and industrious but ill-used Irishwoman. She supported

her family by keeping a little shop, and selling coals. Her husband was

a powerful man—a good worker, but a hard drinker, and, like too many

others addicted to intemperance, he abused and beat her, and pawned and

drank everything he could get hold of. She, amid many prayers and tears,

bore everything patiently, and strove to bring up her only daughter in

the fear of God. We exerted, by God’s blessing, a good influence upon

him through our meetings. He became a total abstainer, gave up his evil

ways, and attended church regularly with his wife. As his interest

increased, he tried to bring others also to the meeting, and urged them

to become abstainers. His wife became a centre of help and of good

influence in all the district, as she kindly invited all and welcomed

them to the meeting in her house, and my work grew every day more

hopeful.

Seeing, however, that one year’s hard work showed such small results,

the directors proposed to remove me to another district, as in their

estimation the non-church-goers in Green Street were unassailable by

ordinary means. I pleaded for six months’ longer trial, as I had gained

the confidence of many of the poor people there, and had an invincible

faith that the good seed sown would soon bear blessed fruit. To this the

directors kindly agreed. At our next meeting I informed those present

that, if we could not draw out more of the non-church-goers to attend

the services, I should be removed to another part of the city. Each one

there and then agreed to bring another to our next meeting. Both our

meetings at once doubled their attendance. My interest in them and their

interest in me now grew apace, and, for fear I might be taken away from

them, they made another effort, and again doubled our attendance.

Henceforth meeting and class were both too large for any house that was

available for us in the whole of our district. We instituted a Bible

Class, a Singing Class, a Communicants’ Class, and a Total Abstinence

Society; and, in addition to the usual meetings, we opened two prayer

meetings specially for the Calton division of the Glasgow Police—one at

a suitable hour for the men on day duty, and another for those on night

duty. The men got up a Mutual Improvement Society and Singing Class also

amongst themselves, weekly, on another evening. My work now occupied

every evening in the week; and I had two meetings every Sabbath. By

God’s blessing they all prospered, and gave evidence of such fruits as

showed that the Lord was working there for good by our humble

instrumentality.

The kind cow-feeder had to inform us—and he did it with much genuine

sorrow—that at a given date he would require the hay-loft, which was our

place of meeting; and as no other suitable house or hall could be got,

the poor people and I feared the extinction of our work. On hearing this

the ostlers and other servants of Menzies, the coach-hirer, who had

extensive premises near our place of meeting, of their own accord asked

and obtained liberty to clear out a hay-loft of theirs that was seldom

in use, and resolved, at their own expense, to erect an outside wooden

stair for the convenience of the people. This becoming known, and being

much talked of, caused great joy in the district, arrested general

attention, and increased the interest of our work. But I saw that,

however generous, it could be at the best only another temporary

arrangement, and that the premises might again at any moment be

required. After prayer I therefore laid the whole case before my good

and great-hearted friend, Thomas Binnie, Esq., Monteith Row, and he,

after inquiring into all the circumstances, secured a good site for a

Mission Hall in a piece of unoccupied ground near our old hay-loft, on

which he proposed to build suitable premises at his own expense. At that

very time, however, a commodious block of buildings, that had been

Church, Schools, Manse, etc., came into the market. Mr. Binnie persuaded

Dr. Symington’s congregation, Great Hamilton Street, in connection with

which my Mission was carried on, to purchase the whole property for

Mission purposes. Its situation at the foot of Green Street gave it a

control of the whole district where my work lay; and so the Church was

given to me in which to conduct all my meetings, while the other halls

were adapted as Schools for poor girls and boys, where they were

educated by a proper master, and were largely supplied with books,

clothing, and even food, by the ladies of the congregation. The

purchasing and using of these buildings for an evangelistic and

educational Mission became a blessing—a very conspicuous blessing—to

that district in the Calton of Glasgow; and the blessing still

perpetuates itself, not only in the old premises, now used for an

Industrial School, but still more in the beautiful and spacious Mission

Halls, erected immediately in front of the old, and consecrated to the

work of the Lord in that poor and crowded and clamant portion of the

city.

Availing myself of the increased facilities, my work was all

re-organized. On Sabbath morning, at seven o’clock, I had one of the

most deeply interesting and fruitful of all my Classes for the study of

the Bible. It was attended by from seventy to a hundred of the very

poorest young women and grown-up lads of the whole district. They had

nothing to put on except their ordinary work-day clothes,—all without

bonnets, some without shoes. Beautiful was it to mark how the poorest

began to improve in personal appearance immediately after they came to

our class; how they gradually got shoes and one bit of clothing after

another, to enable them to attend our other meetings, and then to go to

church; and, above all, how eagerly they sought to bring others with

them, taking a deep personal interest in all the work of the Mission.

Long after they themselves could appear in excellent dress, many of them

still continued to attend in their working clothes, and to bring other

and poorer girls with them to that morning class, and thereby helped to

improve and elevate their companions.

My delight in that Bible Class was among the purest joys in all my life,

and the results were amongst the most certain and precious of all my

ministry. Yet it was not made successful without unceasing pains and

prayers. What would my younger brethren in the Ministry, or in the

Mission, think of starting out at six o’clock every Sunday morning,

running from street to street for an hour, knocking at the doors and

rousing the careless, and thus getting together, and keeping together,

their Bible Class? This was what I did at first; but, in course of time,

a band of voluntary visitors belonging to the class took charge of all

the irregulars, the indifferents, and the new-comers, and thereby not

only relieved and assisted me, but vastly increased their own personal

interest, and became warmly attached to each other.

I had also a very large Bible Class—a sort of Bible-reading—on Monday

night, attended by all, of both sexes and of any age, who cared to come

or had any interest in the work. Wednesday evening, again, was devoted

to a Prayer Meeting for all, and the attendance often more than

half-filled the Church. There I usually took up some book of Holy

Scripture, and read and lectured right through, practically expounding

and applying it. On Thursday I held a Communicants’ Class, intended for

the more careful instruction of all who wished to become full members of

the Church. Our constant text-book was “Patterson on the Shorter

Catechism,” than which I have never seen a better compendium of the

doctrines of Holy Scripture. Each being thus trained for a season,

received from me, if found worthy, a letter to the minister of any

Protestant Church which he or she inclined to join. In this way great

numbers became active and useful communicants in the surrounding

congregations, and eight young lads of humble circumstances educated

themselves for the ministry of the Church,—most of them getting their

first lessons in Latin and Greek from my very poor stock of the same!

Friday evening was occupied with a Singing Class, teaching Church music,

and practising for our Sabbath meetings. On Saturday evening we held our

Total Abstinence meeting, at which the members themselves took a

principal part, in readings, addresses, recitations, singing hymns, etc.

Great good resulted from this Total Abstinence work. Many adults took

and kept the pledge, thereby greatly increasing the comfort and

happiness of their homes. Many were led to attend the church on the

Lord’s Day, who had formerly spent it in rioting and drinking. But,

above all, it trained the young to fear the very name of intoxicating

drink, and to hate and keep far away from everything that led to

intemperance. From observation, at an early age I became convinced that

mere Temperance Societies were a failure, and that Total Abstinence, by

the grace of God, was the only sure preventive as well as remedy. What

was temperance in one man was drunkenness in another; and all the

drunkards came not from those who practised total abstinence, but from

those who practised or tried to practise temperance. I had seen

_temperance_ men drinking wine in the presence of others who drank to

excess, and never could see how they felt clear of blame; and I had

known ministers and others, once strong temperance advocates, fall

through their “moderation” and become drunkards. Therefore it has all my

life appeared to me beyond dispute, in reference to intoxicants of every

kind, that the only rational temperance is total abstinence from them as

beverages, and the use of them only as drugs, and then only with extreme

caution, as they are deceptive and deleterious poisons of the most

debasing and demoralizing kind. I found also, that when I tried to

reclaim a drunkard, or caution any one as to intemperate habits, one of

the first questions was,—

“Are you a pledged Abstainer yourself?”

By being enabled to reply decidedly, “Yes, I am,” the mouth of the

objector was closed; and that gave me a hundred-fold more influence with

him than if I had had to confess that I was only “temperate.” For the

good of others, and for the increase of their personal influence as the

servants of Christ, I would plead with every Minister and Missionary,

every office-bearer and Sabbath school teacher, every one who wishes to

work for the Lord Jesus in the family, the Church, and the world, to be

a Total Abstainer from all intoxicating drinks.

I would add my testimony also against the use of tobacco, which injures

and leads many astray, especially the very young, and which never can be

required by any person in ordinary health. But I would not be understood

to regard the evils that flow from it as deserving to be mentioned in

comparison with the unutterable woes and miseries of intemperance. To be

protected, however, from suspicion and from evil, all the followers of

Jesus should, in self-denial (how small!) and consecration to His

service, be pledged Abstainers from both of these selfish indulgences,

which are certainly injurious to many, which are no ornament to any

character, and which can be no help in well-doing. Praise God for the

many who are now so pledged! Happy day for poor Humanity, when all the

Lord’s people adopt this self-denying ordinance for the good of the

race!

Not boastfully, but gratefully, let me record that my Classes and

Meetings were now attended by such numbers that they were amongst the

largest and most successful that the City Mission had ever known; and by

God’s blessing I was enabled to develop them into a regular, warmly

attached, and intelligent Congregation. My work, however exacting, was

full of joy to me. From five to six hundred people were in usual weekly

attendance; consisting exclusively of poor working persons, and largely

of the humbler class of mill-workers. So soon as their circumstances

improved, they were constantly removing to more respectable and healthy

localities, and got to be scattered over all the city. But wherever they

went, I visited them regularly to prevent their falling away, and held

by them till I got them interested in some Church near where they had

gone to live. On my return, many years after, from the Foreign Mission

field, there was scarcely a congregation in any part of the city where

some one did not warmly salute me with the cry, “Don’t you remember me?”

And then, after greetings, came the well-remembered name of one or other

member of my old Bible Class.

Such toils left me but small time for private studies. The City

Missionary was required to spend four hours daily in his work; but often

had I to spend double that time, day after day, in order to overtake

what was laid upon me. About eight or ten of my most devoted young men,

and double that number of young women, whom I had trained to become

visitors and tract distributors, greatly strengthened my hands. Each of

the young men by himself, and the young women two by two, had charge of

a portion of a street, which was visited by them regularly twice every

month. At a monthly meeting of all our Workers, reports were given in,

changes were noted, and all matters brought under notice were attended

to. Besides, if any note or message were left at my lodging, or any case

of sickness or want reported, it was looked after by me without delay.

Several Christian gentlemen, mill-owners and other employers in the

Calton, Mile-end, and Bridgeton of Glasgow, were so interested in my

work that they kindly offered to give employment to every deserving

person recommended by me, and that relieved much distress and greatly

increased my influence for good.

Almost the only enemies I had were the keepers of Public-Houses, whose

trade had been injured by my Total Abstinence Society. Besides the

Saturday night meetings all the year round, we held, in summer evenings

and on Saturday afternoons, Evangelistic and Total Abstinence services

in the open air. We met in Thomson’s Lane, a short, broad street, not

open for the traffic of conveyances, and admirably situated for our

purposes. Our pulpit was formed by the top of an outside stair, leading

to the second flat of a house in the middle of the lane. Prominent

Christian workers took part with us in delivering addresses; an

intimation through my classes usually secured good audiences; and the

hearty singing of hymns by my Mission Choir gave zest and joy to the

whole proceedings. Of other so-called “attractions” we had none, and

needed none, save the sincere proclamation of the Good Tidings from God

to men!

On one occasion, it becoming known that we had arranged for a special

Saturday afternoon demonstration, a deputation of Publicans complained

beforehand to the Captain of the Police that our meetings were

interfering with their legitimate trade. He heard their complaints and

promised to send officers to watch the meeting, prevent any disturbance,

and take in charge all offenders, but declined to prohibit the meetings

till he received their reports. The Captain, a pious Wesleyan, who was

in full sympathy with us and our work, informed me of the complaints

made and intimated that his men would be present, but I was just to

conduct the meeting as usual, and he would guarantee that strict justice

would be done. The Publicans, having announced amongst their

sympathisers that the Police were to break up and prevent our meeting

and take the conductors in charge, a very large crowd assembled, both

friendly and unfriendly, for the Publicans and their hangers-on were

there “to see the fun,” and to help in baiting the Missionary.

Punctually, I ascended the stone stair, accompanied by another

Missionary who was also to deliver an address, and announced our opening

hymn. As we sang, a company of Police appeared, and were quietly located

here and there among the crowd, the serjeant himself taking his post

close by the platform, whence the whole assembly could be scanned. Our

enemies were jubilant, and signals were passed betwixt them and their

friends, as if the time had come to provoke a row. Before the hymn was

finished, Captain Baker himself, to the infinite surprise of friend and

foe alike, joined us on the platform, devoutly listened to all that was

said, and waited till the close. The Publicans could not for very shame

leave, while he was there at their suggestion and request, though they

had wit enough to perceive that his presence had frustrated all their

sinister plans. They had to hear our addresses and prayers and hymns;

they had to listen to the intimation of our future meetings. When all

had quietly dispersed, the Captain warmly congratulated us on our large

and well-conducted congregation, and hoped that great good would result

from our efforts. This opposition, also, the Lord overruled to increase

our influence, and to give point and publicity to our assaults upon the

kingdom of Satan.

Though disappointed thus, some of the Publicans resolved to have

revenge. On the following Saturday evening, when a large meeting was

being addressed in our Green Street Church, which had to be entered by a

great iron gateway, a spirit merchant ran his van in front of the gate,

so that the people could not leave the Church without its removal.

Hearing this, I sent two of my young men to draw it aside and clear the

way. The Publican, watching near by in league with two policemen,

pounced upon the young men whenever they seized the shafts, and gave

them in charge for removing his property. On hearing that the young men

were being marched to the Police Office, I ran after them and asked what

was their offence? They replied that they were prisoners for injuring

the spirit merchant’s property; and the officers tartly informed me that

if I further interfered I would be taken too. I replied, that as the

young men only did what was necessary, and at my request, I would go

with them to the Office. The cry now went through the street, that the

Publicans were sending the Missionary and his young men to the Police

Office, and a huge mob rushed together to rescue us; but I earnestly

entreated them not to raise disturbance, but allow us quietly to pass

on. At the Office, it appeared as if the lieutenant on duty and the men

under him were all in sympathy with the Publicans. He took down in

writing all their allegations, but would not listen to us. At this stage

a handsomely dressed and dignified gentleman came forward and said,—

“What bail is required?”

A few sharp words passed; another, and apparently higher, officer

entered, and took part in the colloquy. I could only hear the gentleman

protest, in authoritative tones, the policemen having been quietly asked

some questions,—

“I know this whole case, I will expose it to the bottom; expect me here

to stand by the Missionary and these young men on Monday morning.”

Before I could collect my wits to thank him, and before I quite

understood what was going on, he had disappeared; and the superior

officer turned to us and intimated in a very respectful manner that the

charge had been withdrawn, and that I and my friends were at liberty. I

never found out exactly who the gentleman was that befriended us; but

from the manner in which he asserted himself and was listened to, I saw

that he was well known in official quarters. From that day our work

progressed without further open opposition, and many who had been slaves

of intemperance were not only reformed, but became fervent workers in

the Total Abstinence cause.

Though intemperance was the main cause of poverty, suffering, misery,

and vice in that district of Glasgow, I had also considerable opposition

from Romanists and Infidels, many of whom met in clubs, where they drank

together and gloried in their wickedness and in leading other young men

astray. Against these I prepared and delivered lectures, at the close of

which discussion was allowed; but I fear they did little good. These men

embraced the opportunity of airing their absurdities, or sowing the

seeds of corruption in those whom otherwise they could never have

reached, while their own hearts and minds were fast shut against all

conviction or light.

One infidel Lecturer in the district became very ill. His wife called me

in to visit him. I found him possessed of a circulating library of

infidel books, by which he sought to pervert unwary minds. Though he had

talked and lectured much against the Gospel, he did not at all really

understand its message. He had read the Bible, but only to find food

there for ridicule. Now supposed to be dying, he confessed that his mind

was full of terror as to the Future. After several visits and frequent

conversations and prayers, he became genuinely and deeply interested,

drank in God’s message of salvation, and cried aloud with many tears for

pardon and peace. He bitterly lamented the evil he had done, and called

in all the infidel literature that he had in circulation, with the

purpose of destroying it. He began to speak solemnly to any of his old

companions that came to see him, telling them what he had found in the

Lord Jesus. At his request I bought and brought to him a Bible, which he

received with great joy, saying, “This is the book for me now;” and

adding, “Since you were here last, I gathered together all my infidel

books; my wife locked the door, till she and my daughter tore them to

pieces, and I struck the light that reduced the pile to ashes.”

As long as he lived, this man was unwearied and unflinching in

testifying, to all that crossed his path, how much Jesus Christ had been

to his heart and soul; and he died in the possession of a full and

blessed hope.

Another Infidel, whose wife was a Roman Catholic, also became unwell,

and gradually sank under great suffering and agony. His blasphemies

against God were known and shuddered at by all the neighbours. His wife

pled with me to visit him. She refused, at my suggestion, to call her

own priest, so I accompanied her at last. The man refused to hear one

word about spiritual things, and foamed with rage. He even spat at me,

when I mentioned the name of Jesus. “The natural man receiveth not the

things of the Spirit of God; for they are foolishness unto him!” There

is a wisdom which is at best earthly, and at worst “sensual and

devilish.” His wife asked me to take care of the little money they had,

as she would not entrust it to her own priest. I visited the poor man

daily, but his enmity to God and his sufferings together seemed to drive

him mad. His yells gathered crowds on the streets. He tore to pieces his

very bed-clothes, till they had to bind him on the iron bed where he

lay, foaming and blaspheming. Towards the end I pled with him even then

to look to the Lord Jesus, and asked if I might pray with him? With all

his remaining strength, he shouted at me,—

“Pray for me to the devil!”

Reminding him how he had always denied that there was any devil, I

suggested that he must surely believe in one now, else he would scarcely

make such a request, even in mockery. In great rage he cried,—

“Yes, I believe there is a devil, and a God, and a just God, too; but I

have hated Him in life, and I hate Him in death!”

With these awful words, he wriggled into Eternity; but his shocking

death produced a very serious impression for good, especially amongst

young men, in the district where his character was known.

How different was the case of that Doctor who also had been an

unbeliever as well as a drunkard! Highly educated, skilful, and gifted

above most in his profession, he was taken into consultation for

specially dangerous cases, whenever they could find him tolerably sober.

After one of his excessive “bouts,” he had a dreadful attack of

_delirium tremens_. At one time, wife and watchers had a fierce struggle

to dash from his lips a draught of prussic acid; at another, they

detected the silver-hafted lancet concealed in the band of his shirt, as

he lay down, to bleed himself to death. His aunt came and pled with me

to visit him. My heart bled for his poor young wife and two beautiful

little children. Visiting him twice daily, and sometimes even more

frequently, I found the way somehow into his heart, and he would do

almost anything for me and longed for my visits. When again the fit of

self-destruction seized him, they sent for me; he held out his hand

eagerly, and grasping mine, said,—

“Put all these people out of the room, remain you with me; I will be

quiet, I will do everything you ask!”

I got them all to leave, but whispered to one in passing to “keep near

the door.”

Alone I sat beside him, my hand in his, and kept up a quiet conversation

for several hours. After we had talked of everything that I could think

of, and it was now far into the morning, I said,—

“If you had a Bible here, we might read a chapter, verse about.”

He said dreamily, “There was once a Bible above yon press; if you can

get up to it, you might find it there yet.”

Getting it, dusting it, and laying it on a small table which I drew near

to the sofa on which we sat, we read there and then a chapter together.

After this, I said, “Now, shall we pray?”

He replied heartily, “Yes.”

I having removed the little table, we kneeled down together at the sofa;

and after a solemn pause, I whispered, “You pray first.”

He replied, “I curse, I cannot pray; would you have me curse God to His

face?”

I answered, “You promised to do all that I asked; you must pray, or try

to pray, and let me hear that you cannot.”

He said, “I cannot curse God on my knees; let me stand, and I will curse

Him; I cannot pray.”

I gently held him on his knees, saying, “Just try to pray, and let me

hear you cannot.”

Instantly he cried out, “O Lord, Thou knowest I cannot pray,” and was

going to say something dreadful as he strove to rise up. But I just took

the words he had uttered as if they had been my own, and continued the

prayer, pleading for him and his dear ones as we knelt there together,

till he showed that he was completely subdued and lying low at the feet

of God. On rising from our knees he was manifestly greatly impressed,

and I said,—

“Now, as I must be at College by daybreak and must return to my lodging

for my books and an hour’s rest, will you do one thing more for me

before I go?”

“Yes,” was his reply.

“Then,” said I, “it is long since you had a refreshing sleep; now, will

you lie down, and I will sit by you till you fall asleep?”

He lay down, and was soon fast asleep. After commending him to the care

and blessing of the Lord, I quietly slipped out, and his wife returned

to watch by his side. When I came back later in the day, after my

classes were over, he, on hearing my foot and voice, came running to

meet me, and clasping me in his arms, cried,—

“Thank God, I can pray now! I rose this morning refreshed from sleep,

and prayed with my wife and children for the first time in my life; and

now I shall do so every day, and serve God while I live, who hath dealt

in so great mercy with me!”

After delightful conversation, he promised to go with me to Dr.

Symington’s church on Sabbath Day; there he took sittings beside me; at

next half-yearly communion he and his wife were received into

membership, and their children were baptized; and from that day till his

death he led a devoted and most useful Christian life. Henceforth, as a

medical man he delighted to attend all poor and destitute cases which we

brought under his care; he ministered to them for Jesus’ sake, and spoke

to them of their blessed Saviour. When he came across cases that were

hopeless, he sent for me to visit them too, being as anxious for their

souls as for their bodies. He died, years after this, of consumption,

partly at least the fruit of early excesses; but he was serenely

prepared for death, and happy in the assured hope of eternal blessedness

with Christ. He sleeps in Jesus; and I do believe that I shall meet him

in Glory as a trophy of redeeming grace and love!

In my Mission district, I was the witness of many joyful departures to

be with Jesus,—I do not like to name them “deaths” at all. Even now, at

the distance of nearly forty years, many instances, especially amongst

the young men and women who attended my classes, rise up before my mind.

They left us, rejoicing in the bright assurance that nothing present or

to come “could ever separate them or us from the love of God which is in

Christ Jesus our Lord.” Several of them, by their conversation even on

their deathbed, were known to have done much good. Many examples might

be given; but I can find room for only one. John Sim, a dear little boy,

was carried away by consumption. His childish heart seemed to be filled

with joy about seeing Jesus. His simple prattle, mingled with deep

questionings, arrested not only his young companions, but pierced the

hearts of some careless sinners who heard him, and greatly refreshed the

faith of God’s dear people. It was the very pathos of song incarnated to

hear the weak quaver of his dying voice sing out,—

“I lay my sins on Jesus,

The spotless Lamb of God.”

Shortly before his decease he said to his parents, “I am going soon to

be with Jesus; but I sometimes fear that I may not see you there.”

“Why so, my child?” said his weeping mother.

“Because,” he answered, “if you were set upon going to heaven and seeing

Jesus there, you would pray about it, and sing about it; you would talk

about Jesus to others, and tell them of that happy meeting with Him in

Glory. All this my dear Sabbath school teacher taught me, and she will

meet me there. Now why did not you, my father and mother, tell me all

these things about Jesus, if you are going to meet Him too?”

Their tears fell fast over their dying child; and he little knew, in his

unthinking eighth year, what a message from God had pierced their souls

through his innocent words. One day an aunt from the country visited his

mother, and their talk had run in channels for which the child no longer

felt any interest. On my sitting down beside him, he said,—

“Sit you down and talk with me about Jesus; I am tired hearing so much

talk about everything else but Jesus; I am going soon to be with Him.

Oh, do tell me everything you know or have ever heard about Jesus, the

spotless Lamb of God!”

At last the child literally longed to be away, not for rest, or freedom

from pain—for of that he had very little—but, as he himself always put

it, “to see Jesus.” And, after all, that was the wisdom of the heart,

however he learned it. Eternal life, here or hereafter, is just the

vision of Jesus.

Amongst many of the Roman Catholics in my Mission district, also, I was

very kindly received, and allowed even to read the Scriptures and to

pray. At length, however, a young woman who professed to be converted by

my classes and meetings brought things to a crisis betwixt them and me.

She had renounced her former faith, was living in a Protestant family,

and looked to me as her pastor and teacher. One night, a closed

carriage, with two men and women, was sent from a Nunnery in Clyde

Street, to take her and her little sister with them. She refused, and

declined all authority on their part, declaring that she was now a

Protestant by her own free choice. During this altercation, a message

had been sent for me. On arriving, I found the house filled with a noisy

crowd. Before them all, she appealed to me for protection from these her

enemies. The Romanists, becoming enraged, jostled me into a corner of

the room, and there enclosed me. The two women pulled her out of bed by

force, for the girl had been sick, and began to dress her, but she

fainted among their hands.

I called out,—

“Do not murder the poor girl! Get her water, quick, quick!” and leaving

my hat on the table, I rushed through amongst them, as if in search of

water, and they let me pass. Knowing that the house had only one door, I

quickly slipped the key from within, shut and locked the door outside,

and with the key in my hand ran to the Police Office. Having secured two

constables to protect the girl and take the would-be captors into

custody, I returned, opened the door, and found, alas! that these

constables were themselves Roman Catholics, and at once set about

frustrating me and assisting their own friends. The poor sick girl was

supported by the arms into the carriage; the policemen cleared the way

through the crowd; and before I could force my way through the

obstructives in the house, the conveyance was already starting. I

appealed and shouted to the crowds to protect the girl, and seize and

take the whole party to the Police Office. A gentleman in the crowd took

my part, and said to a big Highland policeman in the street,—

“Mac, I commit that conveyance and party to you on a criminal charge,

before witnesses; you will suffer, if they escape.”

The driver lashing at his horse to get away, Mac drew his baton and

struck, when the driver leapt down to the street on the opposite side,

and threw the reins in the policeman’s face. Thereupon our stalwart

friend at once mounted the box, and drove straight for the Police

Office. On arriving there, we discovered that only the women were inside

with the sick girl—the men having escaped in the scuffle and the crush.

What proved more disappointing was that the lieutenant on duty happened

to be a Papist, who, after hearing our statement and conferring with the

parties in the conveyance, returned, and said,—